THE pale bubbles
The lovely pale-gold bubbles of the
globe-flowers
In a
great swarm clotted and single
Went rolling in the dusk towards the
river
To where the
sunset hung its wan gold cloths;
And you stood alone, watching them
go,
And that
mother-love like a demon drew you
from me
Towards England.
Along the road, after nightfall,
Along the glamorous
birch-tree avenue
Across the river levels
We went in silence, and you staring to
England.
So then there shone within the jungle
darkness
Of the
long, lush under-grass, a glow-worm’s sudden
Green lantern of pure light,
a little, intense, fusing triumph,
White and haloed with fire-mist, down in
the
tangled
darkness.
Then you put your hand in mine again, kissed
me,
and we
struggled to be together.
And the little electric flashes went with us, in
the grass,
Tiny
lighthouses, little souls of lanterns, courage
burst into an explosion of
green light
Everywhere down in the grass, where darkness was
ravelled in
darkness.
Still, the kiss was a touch of bitterness on my
mouth
Like salt,
burning in.
And my
hand withered in your hand.
For you were straining with a wild heart,
back,
back
again,
Back to
those children you had left behind, to all
the æons of the
past.
And I was
here in the under-dusk of the Isar.
At home, we leaned in the bedroom window
Of the old Bavarian
Gasthaus,
And the
frogs in the pool beyond thrilled with
exuberance,
Like a boiling pot the pond
crackled with happiness,
Like a rattle a child spins round for joy, the
night rattled
With
the extravagance of the frogs,
And you leaned your cheek on mine,
And I suffered it, wanting to
sympathise.
At last, as you stood, your white gown falling
from
your
breasts,
You
looked into my eyes, and said: “But this is
joy!”
I acquiesced
again.
But the
shadow of lying was in your eyes,
The mother in you, fierce as a murderess,
glaring
to
England,
Yearning
towards England, towards your young children,
Insisting upon your
motherhood, devastating.
Still, the joy was there also, you spoke
truly,
The joy was
not to be driven off so easily;
Stronger than fear or destructive mother-love,
it
stood
flickering;
The
frogs helped also, whirring away.
Yet how I have learned to know that look in your
eyes
Of horrid
sorrow!
How I know
that glitter of salt, dry, sterile,
sharp, corrosive salt!
Not tears, but white sharp
brine
Making
hideous your eyes.
I have seen it, felt it in my mouth, my throat,
my
chest, my
belly,
Burning of
powerful salt, burning, eating through
my defenceless
nakedness.
I have
been thrust into white, sharp crystals,
Writhing, twisting,
superpenetrated.
Ah, Lot’s Wife, Lot’s Wife!
The pillar of salt, the
whirling, horrible column
of salt, like a waterspout
That has enveloped
me!
Snow of salt,
white, burning, eating salt
In which I have
writhed.
Lot’s Wife! — Not Wife, but Mother.
I have learned to curse your
motherhood,
You
pillar of salt accursed.
I have cursed motherhood because of
you,
Accursed,
base motherhood!
I long for the time to come, when the curse
against
you will
have gone out of my heart.
But it has not gone yet.
Nevertheless, once, the
frogs, the globe-flowers of
Bavaria, the glow-worms
Gave me sweet lymph against
the salt-burns,
There is a kindness in the very rain.
Therefore, even in the hour of my deepest, pas
—
sionate malediction
I try to remember it is also well between
us.
That you are
with me in the end.
That you never look quite back; nine-tenths, ah,
more
You look
round over your shoulder;
But never quite back.
Nevertheless the curse against you is still in my
heart
Like a deep,
deep burn.
The
curse against all mothers.
All mothers who fortify themselves in
motherhood,
devastating the vision.
They are accursed, and the curse is not taken
off
It burns
within me like a deep, old burn,
And oh, I wish it was
better.
BEUERBERG