The Bridge: Cutty Sark
I met a man in South Street, tall—
a nervous shark tooth swung on his chain.
His eyes pressed through green glass
—green glasses, or bar lights made them
so—
shine—
GREEN—
eyes—
stepped out—forgot to look at you
or left you several blocks away—
in the nickel-in-the-slot piano jogged
“Stamboul Nights”—weaving somebody’s nickel—sang—
O Stamboul Rose—dreams weave the rose!
Murmurs of Leviathan he spoke,
and rum was Plato in our heads . . .
“It’s S.S. Ala—Antwerp—now remember kid
to put me out at three she sails on time.
I’m not much good at time any more keep
weakeyed watches sometimes snooze—” his bony hands
got to beating time . . . “A whaler once—
I ought to keep time and get over it—I’m a
Democrat—I know what time it is—No
I don’t want to know what time it is—that
damned white Arctic killed my time . . . ”
O Stamboul Rose—drums weave—
“I ran a donkey engine down there on the Canal
in Panama—got tired of that—
then Yucatan selling kitchenware—beads—
have you seen Popocatepetl—birdless mouth
with ashes sifting down—?
and then the coast again . . . ”
Rose of Stamboul O coral Queen—
teased remnants of the skeletons of cities—
and galleries, galleries of watergutted lava
snarling stone—green—drums—drown—
Sing!
“—that spiracle!” he shot a finger out the door . . .
'O life’s a geyser—beautiful—my lungs—
No—I can’t live on land—!'
I saw the frontiers gleaming of his mind;
or are there frontiers—running sands sometimes
[...] Read more
poem by Harold Hart Crane
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