NAME

I say

I the I

the dreamt one

with a voice -

ah, to speak is to die -

lifted and sent,

I say:

you, you the one, unpent of dreams, the
adequate

enumeration

of clothes' catalogue,

walk, oh walk,

a consensus-taker's unit,

serene hour's fresh rune,

frustration

of no plot-primary principle,

walk,

culminator in love, inculcator

of love's splintery shivery power, I

say - excuse the brief

excuse - you

you sheer material, palpitant

to your bone, are repellant and

mysterious, with a moment's grace

seeing you clearly

by the clock and sun,

afterward the speech gallant,

sliding sliding to the slant,

yes,

you said, my body is my property

and I bowed my head -

it was begun,

between love and not love, speech and -

I the one speaking

- not love, you seeking

the trim trimming of matter, turning

on no dream pivot,

you (before you were, it was)

made sure no speechifying love

dream speechifying interfered

with your - cosiest, warmest, best - lying -

ah ha, my wild eyes pierce

do not conceal the tender, fierce

version of lying growing up in your fears

- swallower, I, of incompetent fruit making

the whisper in my mouth - straining bird: you,

going north, yielding to south -

YALE
BOOKS

Ezra Pound Papers

you: your eyes following your clothes, and how
a dollar is spent, you know: I crossing
all with a new

crisscrossing cankerous - ssh!
recipe for Modernity: I cry

into your ear, tonight (banalities of
stretched main torse back over a chair, all
the wounding difficulty of your

face
unseen. . . the lever having been lifted! -
centrality

a winter vagabond a polar contortion
of unchoosed

uggh! -
I say, I the I, - no!

the firm lip
(man's moral of the masculine)

I say, I the I, say (but - it is lost now I know)
you (zero), unpent of dreams, a dream

sentient;
YOU: crying cannot make you any more

you - my mistake!! - I recognize, eyes
are alive with you, to the last, light's smug
cessation of groping you, that neck with the
miraculous barber's stunt, wavy hair,
the form (oh no other suit is like this), the sheer
artist's gift of the outgrowing flash to profile,

white of eyeball, light cleaving into;
your coat leaving

you adjust

a second's space
for the glance

not meant but sent -

echo. . . . and echo, ah why
do I speechify

why not only let-
ting of that thing, as it were, naturally, die:
it is dead for you and it was dead

a question-mark
hark, hark - SONG! . . . do I exaggerate?
do I speechify? shall I let the thing die?

to you, you, with, I began to say, my voice,
now, again, I -

what? naught. . . . but that. . .

I say (cough) time is falling off
me like clothes, and space -

I sing, I sing:

I hush (your mute being)

- becomes naked

I begin again, I the I, see!

your poised foot goes back, no ritual

my words devise, no spell -

the clock

runs again, runs back to you

its wheels

twine around your entrails

- the

hour comes and squeals - to

draw you back again point. . . point

song remains foreign to each clock's-joint

and. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . anoint

DEREK FOX

CHRYSALIS

Every morning at half past seven and every evening at a quarter past five he dropped a nickel into the subway turnstile and pushed its wooden bar with his stomach. During his working hours he copied numbers into a huge ledger for "Oliphant and Co. Importers".

He used a pen with a delicate point, and his writing looked like troops of fairies that had suddenly fallen asleep on their tiny feet. His employer used to call him the best ledger clerk in the department.

At noon, he always carefully removed his alpaca office coat, and washed his long thin hands. Then he put his street coat on and went out to the elevator. Sometimes the elevator operator would jerk the car to a stand still at his floor and snarl in his face, "no room". He would then go to the staircase and walk down five flights of clanging iron steps.

He never used to eat at lunch, although he might buy an apple and chew on it thoughtfully as he made his way through the lunch hour throngs.

All the other clerks in the ledger department would stroll along Broadway in their twenty-two fifty suits and smoke Lucky Strikes. Usually they would whistle and grin at any pair of legs that seemed provocative.

He was different. He never looked at the girls legs or hips. He used to look at their faces and half close his eyes. He was a dreamer.

If it chanced that a pair of deep and warm eyes met his, and clung for a second, he would be transported into a world of his own. A world in which he drank ambrosia and nectar. Lost in his dreams he would find himself attempting to cross

Times Square against the red traffic light and the beefy policeman's white gloved hand. Once, he was scraped by a taxi and the driver spit, "where the hell do yuh think yer goin' ".

He generally walked straight east, passing under the ambling Sixth Avenue elevated structure and then under the absurd Third Avenue Open Air Line. He didn't like the elevated lines. They weren't mysterious enough. Once, he looked up at the gleaming crest of the Chrysler Building as he passed and he became very dizzy. Thereafter, he found it easier to think about the glories of modern construction than to look at them.

The East River was at noon hour objective. Choosing an empty spot along the wharf, he would sit and gaze out over the oil flecked water and the clumsy garbage scows.........

A thousand manned Roman galley breasted the white caps of the blue waves. Black slaves, their oily skin sending darts of light, were chained to their oars. Above them stood bull necked overseers with screaming leaded thongs. High up in the galley's prow was a canopied area. Under the rich velvet canopy a massive Roman captain rested, his eyes and beard being annointed by a captive Oriental princess.......

"Yuh gotta fag, bo?" And then under the beaten gaze of a tramp, he lost his wave crested dream and saw dirty overalled laborers sorting garbage on East River scows.

He was almost twenty four years old and he had never known women intimately. His soft manner and finely cut face would have given him access easily enough; but he preferred to be alone with the exotic creations of his own mind rather than the very much alive and at the same time dead street walkers. He had overheard one of the clerks say that they were all more or less diseased. He was very clean and at night he used to admire his body in a long mirror.

but his委托人向他贷款500美元，用于购买他那辆价值400美元的汽车。他向银行申请了贷款，但需要提供擔保人。他向银行申请了贷款，但需要提供擔保人。最后他终于得到贷款。

贷款批准后，他向银行申请了贷款。他向银行申请了贷款，但需要提供擔保人。最后他终于得到贷款。

When he had entered the Subway and had passed through the turnstile, he was in an unknown world of mystery. The people would jam close to one another and in the press of the crowd, he could feel the surge of an emperor's race in his blood. Sometimes his body would burn and then, he would try to move away from the woman that the crowd had pressed close to him in its rhythmic underground embrace.

The rumble of the express train down the track and the approaching click click of the wheels would turn him into a medieval knight. The wicked green eyes of the train and its open yellow mouth would crash into the station and he would have it mentally vanquished by the time its side belly doors were open and he was shoved into the packed and odorful car.

Around the curve of Grand Central Station, and then the dragon on wheels would speed down a straight-away with him inside of its belly, thoughtfully gazing at the advertisements on the walls, that in glaring reds, greens, and blues, proclaimed Flem, the most wonderful cough medicine; and why thousands of physicians endorsed Cream of the Crop cigarettes as the "world's finest".

If he was unmercifully elbowed and shirked, he would say "pardon me", and all the people within ear-shot would look at him and grin. He hardly ever managed to get a seat. Somebody always happened to fall into it before him. He didn't care though. Under his feet he could feel the burning entrails of a god conceived monster, and he felt that he had a special communion with God in knowing it.

He lived by himself in a furnished room. It was a pleasant room and it had in it a very comfortable bed. He liked a bed in which he could fall asleep quickly and dream. He had decorated the room as he wished. A deep lounging chair and pillows scattered about made him feel bohemian. On the walls he had placed some batik hangings. A lamp gave a deep and intimate glow.

["bed, but was instead of being dead.", "He lay there, and the dead man lay\nblessed and alone. The wind was strong\nto blow away his dead body, and he\nsat there all night, and the dead man\nsaw him, and the dead man said to him,\n\"Why are you here? I come to you\nonly to tell you, that I am your\nbrother.\" And the dead man said,\n\"Why are you

["blessed be the name of that great and good man who, in his early days, was a poor and unskilled laborer, and who, in his later years, became a great and famous laborer, and who, in his last days, was a poor and unskilled laborer, and who, in his last days, was a great and famous laborer, and who, in his last days, was a poor and unskilled laborer,

Confused murmurs of a fighting horse, and
brilliant hues blanket the world. Everything combined to weave a carpet of bronze
splashed dreams. Cavalcades of flaming
standards pushed into the heart of the uni-
verse, and touched the divine essence...

He couldn't understand why the news
of a vacation with full pay and advancement
to the managership should do that to him.
It wasn't as though he were going to travel
and live a blooded life. No, he couldn't
understand the sudden action that his blood
and mind had taken. All he knew was that
he wanted to drink champagne, and sink his
head into the warm space between soft breasts.
He became frightened at the thought of it.
When he came home he dropped into his loung-
ing chair.

When his landlady brought him his tea
that night, she found the room in darkness.
She called to him, but he didn't seem to hear
her. Pulling the cord of the lamp she saw
him sitting in his chair. She walked over
to him and looked at his face. His head was
flushed and his eyes seemd tired and heavy.

He has fever, she thought, and she leaned
over his face. Her lips caressed his brow,
and then frightened at her impulse she stood
up.

His eyes opened and he lifted his hand
to them.

"Yes?" His voice was low and soft.

"Are you sick?" she managed to say.

"I've been dreaming" he said "the dreams
in my heart are bubbling red and they are
burning me. My heart is dream filled and it
hurts me."

His speech startled her and made her want
to cover him with her own lips. She saw her-
self in the mirror and she shuddered. Under
her muslin dress she felt wicked and scarlet.

["Ganesh, a young man, lay on a bed in a hospital. He was a patient in the intensive care unit of a university hospital. He was a patient of Dr. John Smith, a famousurology specialist in New York City. He was a patient of the best-known urologist in the city, Dr. David Johnson. He was being treated by Dr. Johnson, but he was having difficulty urinating. He was having trouble getting his urine out of his bladder. He was having trouble urinating because of a condition called benign prostatic hyperplasia, or benign prostatic肥大症, or BPH. He was having trouble urinating because of a condition that affected his urinary system. He was having trouble urinating because of a condition that affected his urinary system.", "Dr. Johnson was treating a patient who had BPH. He was treating a patient who had BPH because of a condition that affected his urinary system. He was treating a patient who had BPH because of a

The trap drum was crashing and the clarinet screamed clear piercing notes. The sounds from the saxophone tumbled over one another in a mad dance of life.

On a small packed Harlem dance floor he was clinging to her. Flaming black breathing and a carnival of stormy joy. He was bound to her by the mad hootings of the horns and the crazy rhythm of a sexy throbbing violin.

His heart was gone. In its place was a broken old run-down piano that thumped and thumped out black and white ivories of Blues... and Shuffles...

Flaming scarlets and tropic browns all cocked up with a jungle wail. Moanin' with love and pain...

"You tired, boy?" Her voice was a throaty sob.

"I'm living" his piano heart thumped back.

Beale Street Blues and a sobbing breast. Reeling and swaying across a flesh packed floor for a new rebirth. Shuffling a new lif into a cameo cut face that drank from the lips of a stepping high black queen.

His eyes were dreaming of an unknown world of throbbing drums and wailing brass when she took his hand and said, "Where to, white doll man?"

Wildly alive, they spent the night in a whirlwind chariot of purple and white shadows.

A cream white man spilled a basket of jeweled dreams across the rioting body of a shuffle queen...singing...in...Blues... Blues... shouting and screaming...in... Blues...

Out on the Harlem River the moon dropped splashed of silver and quieted the madly dancing buildings and tenement houses. Into the streets there burned the thread of jungle dreams. The...

KATHERINE B. ANDREWS

SONNET

Chaste Artenis, and Venus fair, unkind

To cause this heart, with strife, unwanted pain,

To conquer each the other, and again

Restruggle and reconquer. Now I find

The calm-eyed huntress holding me in thrall,

Obedient to her maiden law, and now

The mother of young love, to whom I vow

Forever worship at his altar wall.

And since the gods, not I, have willed it so,

Then let the gods, not I, receive the blame

Of fools who cry that verse is reason's foe

And that no poet's mood is twice the same;

As mutable are poet's souls as flame

Which every wayward wind may toss and blow.

JAMES THRALL SOBY

MODIGLIANI

Literature clings to the romantic conception of the painter as a man whose important struggle is with society rather than with the problems of his own capability. Consequently, it selects as gods of painting those men whose extreme pre-occupation with outer circumstance marks them as minor artists. It chooses Gauguin, Modigliani, and Pascin in preference to Cezanne, Matisse and Picasso. No one can make an adequate romantic hero out of Cezanne, though Zola tried in a book which has plunged us from the innocuous hilarity of Murder to a sadistic emphasis on suffering in aesthetics. Literature has created in our time a new type of artist; a figure in agony. It has been most fortunate with Gauguin and Modigliani because the distress of their maladjustment with society is pleasantly apparent in their work. Literature remains romantically incoherent, however about their plastic dilemmas.

Modigliani, when he came to Paris, had already developed the talent for drawing which awakens early in men of his race and nationality. He was influenced first by Lautrec, later by Picasso. His line became stronger and more fluent. If any claim is to be made for him as a great artist, it must be based on his drawings. The series of Cariatides which he finished under the inspiration of Byzantine, Egyptian, and negro art have a curious, simplified decadence which gives them vitality. The fact that he made his drawings serve as the backbone of other mediums is what detracts from their excellence. They are an original contribution to art, but expanded to paintings they lose the incisiveness for which they are exceptional.

["MODIGLIANI", "1909", "modigliani, modigliani, modigliani, mod

["JANET LEWIS", "BOKHARA", "When she was four years old she was sometimes permitted to ride on the carpet sweeper as Sophie Valentine dragged it back and forth. When she was eight she was allowed to run it herself. She cleaned the carpet in the library, bumping carefully against the legs of chairs and tables, and she carried the sweeper outdoors to empty the soft rolls of lint from the narrow pans. She watered the plants that stood on the deep sill of the library window, each red pot on a blue plate. The plants had each been given for an occasion, and, as the event faded into distance and they lost their flowers, they were kept for their green leaves. Two geraniums, a primrose, a cyclamen. The tough cyclamen leaves with their clearly defined shapes rose upon a whorl of pinkish fleshy stems. Hilda looked among the stems for the head of a new bud. There was also a little tree with sharp green leaves that had been a wonder on the day of its arrival, a cloud of ruffled pink blossoms, crisp, dotted with red, azaleas.", "She was in the fourth grade. The teachers in the lower three grades were women with lined motherly faces, and minds in which the necessity of waiting for little children to understand had become a habit, requiring no more effort. The teacher in the fourth grade was younger. She wore her hair in a high brown pompadour, and her nails were pink and shiny when she pointed to the wrong places in an exercise. The children said she was sarcastic, learning the word to apply it to her, and Hilda found that she did not like school anymore.", "She studied her lesson in the library under a flickering gas jet, waiting for her father to come home, or for her mother to call them to supper. There was a fireplace faced with green tile, and filled with a tilted sheet of asbestos over which the gas flame moved. On cold nights she sat on the floor to watch the thin flame clinging to the rough grey fibres yet never burning them.", "an البسية even blushed off her face and held her breath until she could not breathe again. She lay on the floor, and the gas was out. The door was closed. The灯 was on. She could not move. She lay still. The gas went out. She was alone. The door was closed. She opened it slowly. She found the room empty. She sat down. She felt cold. She took off her coat. She put her hand into the pocket. She found money. She put it in her mouth. She ate it. She lay still. She slept. She awoke. She found herself in the library. She lay still. She slept. She awoke. She found herself in the room. She lay still. She slept. She awoke. She found herself in the room. She lay still.

Her father taught in a small college in the city. He had many foreign students, and many poor ones. Sometimes he would bring one or two of them home to supper. The spaces in time were longer than they seemed to be, later, and people's visits fell far apart. She never got to know any of them well except Alexis.

The first night he came home with her father they stood in the hallway taking off their coats. They were surrounded by a little storm of cold air, and the rough surfaces of their coats were dewed with wet. Alexis had brought a present for her mother, a purple cardboard box, in which were violets wrapped in transparent oiled paper, and tied with a blue and silver ribbon. The ribbon was pierced with a long green-headed pin. Her mother untied the ribbon and put the flowers in water, and the ribbon and pin and box and the curious paper were given to Hilda.

They all went into the kitchen while her mother finished cooking supper. Hilda was allowed to wash the potatoes, and as she needed both hands for the masher Alexis held the kettle to keep it from skidding. He took off his coat, and she remembered the blue sleeves of his shirt, and his dark vest. Her father sat in the maple rocker in the corner and joked. The air was hot, and a cloud of steam and grease hung in the high corners and over the flame of the light. The flame came from the pinched tip of the burner with no color, then was blue and then spread in a golden fan with rippling edges.

Alexis was short and swarthy, but his motions were full of grace and his smile charming. The lips were narrow and strong, arching or straightening suddenly. In a family of blondes with blue eyes and pale brown hair he was strange and fascinating.

Hilda liked to have him come to the house because he made everything seem dramatic and lively. He would take Hilda's hand, rubbing it gently against his cheek, and say, "Papa is a great man. All the foreign students love him. There is no one like Papa in whole Chicago." Or he would take her doll on his knee and inquire gravely after its health and the events of its day. Once he picked up a safety pin from the floor, and, holding it wisely before him, declined, "This is the first pin worn by man." His voice was resonant and deep, flexible.

Sometimes he came to the house early and sat in the library alone while her father withdrew to his study to correct papers. He was not always approachable then, and Hilda lingered shyly about the door, clinging to the long portiere. He was sunk in a darkness of his own, his features still. His face was heavily marked from smallpox, but the rough texture of his skin seemed one with the strength of his face. Once on such an evening he had beckoned her to him, and holding both her hands asked her questions about herself.

She said, "I get a hundred in everything but music today, Alexis," and he answered, "You must not call me Alexis."

"Why?" she said.

"You must call me Prince Alexis because my papa is Grand Vizier of Bokhara."

She looked at him with wonder and delight. He sat leaning back in the chair, his chin sunk toward his breast, smiling at her. The light from the gas grate shone unsteadily on his forehead, his cheekbones, and the bridge of his nose. His long eyes were full of a liquid darkness. He added, "But you may call me Alexis if you want to because you are little and I love you."

She asked her mother, "Is Alexis really a prince?"

"Your father says so."

"Where is Bokhara?"

"You should find it on your map. The red rug by the door in the parlor is from Bokhara."

The rug was the color of a silk dress her cousin were, the tall beautiful cousin with the black hair. Claret, and claret was a wine.

She sat on a hassock at his feet one evening before supper with a dish of apples she had been given to peel. The apples were large for her hands. The paring knife moved unsteadily and slowly under the tough green skin, loosing a long unbroken peel that hung down in spirals. The scent of the apples was fresh, smelling of outdoors. Alexis was watching the flat fire, spreading and clinging like a vine. She asked him, "What kind of dresses do the people wear in Bokhara?"

"Oh, very bright," he answered. "Very gay, with ribbons. Maybe with gold. Very nice dresses for a little girl."

"I would like a Bokhara dress," she said, thinking of the blue surgeon with the sailor collar which she wore to school. "Alexis, did you come on a boat when you came here?"

"Yes."

"On a big boat?"

"On a big boat and on a little boat, and on a little boat, and on a big train and on a little train, too." She looked at him carefully to see if he were teasing her. He continued. "In Europe they have the little trains, with whistles and bells. Little bells that sound like the one from rings for Hilda when it is time to come in from play."

She fell to thinking about trains, which she did not like. She did not like to cross the tracks, and she dreamed once that a big locomotive had chased her up the pinetree at the corner. But a little train might be different.

In school she learned that east was on the right hand of north, and that northeast was between east and north, but it did not help her much in the matter of Bokhara. The children stood beside their seats and pointed east, south, west, north, in unison as the teacher directed. It was the beginning of the geography lesson. She wondered if you went north where east would be. But she was not having a good time at school, and there were tears at home in the evening.

Alexis said, "Why does little Hilda weep in the corner over the red book?" and she answered, "It's my spelling book, and Miss Jones is cross to me."

He said, "Does she make little Hilda weep? When I am Vazir I will hang only schoolteachers."

When she swung her feet under the table and her tired mother spoke to her sharply, she looked at Alexis, and he smiled at her from his long eyes. She was very sorry when he went away.

It was spring, and it was beginning to be light after supper. He was standing on the front porch, with his hat in his hand, and his overcoat unbuttoned. The bittersweet vine that lay in a hoop on the railing had no leaves, but it looked limber and alive. The porch was marked with streaks of pale dried mud from Hilda's skates. He said, "My papa is sick and I must go home." He stooped and kissed her goodby. He kissed her on the cheek, but he kissed her mother's

hands, bending over them. Then he went down the street carrying his bag, her father walking beside him to the train. Her mother put her hands behind her back and looked after them with a strange quizzical gaze, neither sorry nor glad.

A few weeks later Hilda had a letter in a square envelope with a foreign stamp. At the top of the sheet it said in blue letters, "On board the S.S. Lusitania." The writing said, "Dear little Hilda, I would like to come back and eat smashed potatoes and hear your little feet kicking under the table. When I return I will bring you the most beautiful dress in Bokhara. Ever your lover, Prince Alexis."

For a long time she asked often about Alexis, thinking of the dress. Then the death of her father's parents, within less than three months of each other, filled the house with mourning, and she forgot about Bokhara.

Summer slowly invaded the rooms again, shining through the dropped awnings. The lawnmowers ran all day, like insects near or far, cutting the flat heads from the dandelions. Hilda's dresses were grass-stained, and her fingers were printed with brown rings from the wet white juice of dandelion stems.

When the Lusitania was torpedoed some faint emotion woke for the name that was not for the immediate disaster. A memory of Alexis returned and merged with her conception of the tragedy, lending it the grace of remote and beautiful things. But the letter was lost, the Lusitania lay still under water and other and heavier events succeeded the sinking of the ship. Hilda was fourteen in that August when the first declaration of war was made, and, as the war went on, she grew up. It was a Saturday morning in May during the first spring after the Armistice when she found the letter. She had been cleaning out her desk. The windows of her bedroom were open and below them the tops of the lilac bushes were growing a dim purple with

["and much new delight. 'Must have been abased\nnot to have been so happy.' 'Had all my friends been\nable to do that.' 'How sad it would be.' 'But this\nis a little too late to mend.' 'But what can I do\nwhen it is too late to do anything?' 'Why, I\nam a failure.' 'But still there is always a ray of\nhope.'