The House Of Dust: Part 02: 06: Adele And Davis

She turned her head on the pillow, and cried once more.
And drawing a shaken breath, and closing her eyes,
To shut out, if she could, this dingy room,
The wigs and costumes scattered around the floor,
Yellows and greens in the dark, she walked again
Those nightmare streets which she had walked so often . . .
Here, at a certain corner, under an arc-lamp,
Blown by a bitter wind, she stopped and looked
In through the brilliant windows of a drug-store,
And wondered if she dared to ask for poison:
But it was late, few customers were there,
The eyes of all the clerks would freeze upon her,
And she would wilt, and cry . . . Here, by the river,
She listened to the water slapping the wall,
And felt queer fascination in its blackness:
But it was cold, the little waves looked cruel,
The stars were keen, and a windy dash of spray
Struck her cheek, and withered her veins . . . And so
She dragged herself once more to home, and bed.

Paul hadnt guessed it yet, though twice, already,
Shed fainted, once, the first time, on the stage.
So she must tell him soon, or else, get out . . .
How could she say it? That was the hideous thing.
Shed rather die than say it! . . . and all the trouble,
Months when she couldnt earn a cent, and then,
If he refused to marry her . . . well, what?
She saw him laughing, making a foolish joke,
His grey eyes turning quickly; and the words
Fled from her tongue . . . She saw him sitting silent,
Brooding over his morning coffee, maybe,
And tried again . . . she bit her lips, and trembled,
And looked away, and said . . . Say Paul, boy, listen,
Theres something I must tell you . . .  There she stopped,
Wondering what hed say . . . What would he say?
Spring it, kid! Dont look so serious!
But what Ive got to say, IS, serious!
Then she could see how, suddenly, he would sober,
His eyes would darken, hed look so terrifying,
He always did, and what could she do but cry?
Perhaps, then, he would guess, perhaps he wouldnt.
And if he didnt, but asked her Whats the matter?
She knew shed never tell, just say she was sick . . .
And after that, when would she dare again?
And what would he do, even suppose she told him?

If it were Felix! If it were only Felix!
She wouldnt mind so much. But as it was,
Bitterness choked her, she had half a mind
To pay out Felix for never having liked her,
By making people think that it was he . . .
Shed write a letter to someone, before she died,
Just saying Felix did it, and wouldnt marry.
And then shed die . . . But that was hard on Paul . . .
Paul would never forgive her, hed never forgive her!
Sometimes she almost thought Paul really loved her . . .
She saw him look reproachfully at her coffin.

And then she closed her eyes and walked again
Those nightmare streets that she had walked so often:
Under an arc-lamp swinging in the wind
She stood, and stared in through a drug-store window,
Watching a clerk wrap up a little pill-box.
But it was late. No customers were there,
Pitiless eyes would freeze her secret in her!
And then, what poison would she dare to ask for?
And if they asked her why, what would she say?

Conrad Aiken

Conrad Aiken was an American poet, born on August 5, 1889. He was an influential figure in 20th-century American literature, known for his lyrical and psychological depth. Aiken's work often explored themes of identity, time, and the psychoanalytic. He also served as the Consultant in Poetry to the Library of Congress, a position now known as the U.S. Poet Laureate. He passed away on August 17, 1973.

Conrad Aiken

The Window

Conrad Aiken, Simple Poetry

Asphalt

Conrad Aiken, Simple Poetry

Senlin, A Biography: Part 01: His Dark Origins - 02

Conrad Aiken, Simple Poetry

The Room

Conrad Aiken, Simple Poetry

English

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The House Of Dust: Part 04: 02: Death: And A Derisive Chorus

The door is shut. She leaves the curtained office,
And down the grey-walled stairs comes trembling slowly
Towards the dazzling street.
Her withered hand clings tightly to the railing.
The long stairs rise and fall beneath her feet.

Here in the brilliant sun we jostle, waiting
To tear her secret out . . . We laugh, we hurry,
We go our way, revolving, sinister, slow.
She blinks in the sun, and then steps faintly downward.
We whirl her away, we shout, we spin, we flow.

Where have you been, old lady? We know your secret!
Voices jangle about her, jeers, and laughter. . . .
She trembles, tries to hurry, averts her eyes.
Tell us the truth, old lady! where have you been?
She turns and turns, her brain grows dark with cries.

Look at the old fool tremble! S...

Conrad Aiken

The House Of Dust: Part 03: 06: Portrait Of One Dead

This is the house. On one side there is darkness,
On one side there is light.
Into the darkness you may lift your lanterns,
O, any number, it will still be night.
And here are echoing stairs to lead you downward
To long sonorous halls.
And here is spring forever at these windows,
With roses on the walls.

This is her room. On one side there is music,
On one side not a sound.
At one step she could move from love to silence,
Feel myriad darkness coiling round.
And here are balconies from which she heard you,
Your steady footsteps on the stair.
And here the glass in which she saw your shadow
As she unbound her hair.

Here is the room, with ghostly walls dissolving,
The twilight room in which she called you lover;
And the floorless room in wh...

Conrad Aiken

The House Of Dust: Part 02: 10: Sudden Death

Number four, the girl who died on the table,
The girl with golden hair,
The purpling body lies on the polished marble.
We open the throat, and lay the thyroid bare . . .

One, who held the ether-cone, remembers
Her dark blue frightened eyes.
He heard the sharp breath quiver, and saw her breast
More hurriedly fall and rise.
Her hands made futile gestures, she turned her head
Fighting for breath; her cheeks were flushed to scarlet,
And, suddenly, she lay dead.

And all the dreams that hurried along her veins
Came to the darkness of a sudden wall.
Confusion ran among them, they whirled and clamored,
They fell, they rose, they struck, they shouted,
Till at last a pallor of silence hushed them all.

What was her name? Where had she walked that morn...

Conrad Aiken

The House Of Dust: Part 02: 08: The Box With Silver Handles

Well, it was two days after my husband died,
Two days! And the earth still raw above him.
And I was sweeping the carpet in their hall.
In number four, the room with the red wall-paper,
Some chorus girls and men were singing that song
Theyll soon be lighting candles
Round a box with silver handles and hearing them sing it
I started to cry. Just then he came along
And stopped on the stairs and turned and looked at me,
And took the cigar from his mouth and sort of smiled
And said, Say, whats the matter? and then came down
Where I was leaning against the wall,
And touched my shoulder, and put his arm around me . . .
And I was so sad, thinking about it,
Thinking that it was raining, and a cold night,
With Jim so unaccustomed to being dead,
That I was happy to...

Conrad Aiken

The House Of Dust: Part 04: 04: Counterpoint: Two Rooms

He, in the room above, grown old and tired,
She, in the room below, his floor her ceiling,
Pursue their separate dreams. He turns his light,
And throws himself on the bed, face down, in laughter. . . .
She, by the window, smiles at a starlight night,

His watch, the same he has heard these cycles of ages,
Wearily chimes at seconds beneath his pillow.
The clock, upon her mantelpiece, strikes nine.
The night wears on. She hears dull steps above her.
The world whirs on. . . .New stars come up to shine.

His youth, far off, he sees it brightly walking
In a golden cloud. . . .Wings flashing about it. . . . Darkness
Walls it around with dripping enormous walls.
Old age, far off, her death, what do they matter?
Down the smooth purple night a streaked star falls.

Conrad Aiken

The House Of Dust: Part 01: 06: Over The Darkened City, The City Of Towers

Over the darkened city, the city of towers,
The city of a thousand gates,
Over the gleaming terraced roofs, the huddled towers,
Over a somnolent whisper of loves and hates,
The slow wind flows, drearily streams and falls,
With a mournful sound down rain-dark walls.
On one side purples the lustrous dusk of the sea,
And dreams in white at the citys feet;
On one side sleep the plains, with heaped-up hills.
Oaks and beeches whisper in rings about it.
Above the trees are towers where dread bells beat.

The fisherman draws his streaming net from the sea
And sails toward the far-off city, that seems
Like one vague tower.
The dark bow plunges to foam on blue-black waves,
And shrill rain seethes like a ghostly music about him
In a quiet shower.

Rain wi...

Conrad Aiken