Water makes many beds
Water makes many Beds
For those averse to sleep —
Its awful chamber open stands —
Its Curtains blandly sweep —
Abhorrent is the Rest
In undulating Rooms
Whose Amplitude no end invades —
Whose Axis never comes.
Sometime in the 60s I read a poetry review in Time Magazine. It was about a world that was suddenly destroyed by a devastating flood of hot water. The almost delightful poem was all about a person having a tub bath and the destroyed world were the bugs (germs, etc?) in the water. Repeated attempts at finding the poem have gotten me nowhere. For a while I suspected it might have been an Auden poem. But I have found none by him in my searches.
There is one that does satisfy me and perhaps better accompanies my portrait of Inga Vollmer in her tub.
As a bathtub lined with white porcelain,
When the hot water gives out or goes tepid,
So is the slow cooling of our chivalrous passion,
O my much praised but-not-altogether-satisfactory lady.
How happy is the little stone
Sleep is supposed to be
The shutting of the eye
I dwell in possibility
when Sappho was a living girl
In a library
A light exists in spring
The lady dare not lift her veil
I took my power in my hand
I find my feet have further goals
I cannot dance upon my toes
The Music of the Violin does not emerge alone
He touched me, so I live to know
Rear Window- The Entering Takes Away
Said Death to Passion
We Wear the Mask That Grins And Lies
It was not death for I stood alone
The Music in the Violin Does Not Emerge Alone
I tend my flowers for thee
Lavinia Norcross Dickinson
Pray gather me anemone!
Ample make her bed
His caravan of red
Me-come! My dazzled face
Develops pearl and weed
But peers beyond her mesh
Surgeons must be very careful
Water is taught by thirst
I could not prove that years had feet
April played her fiddle
A violin in Baize replaced
I think the longest hour
The spirit lasts
Originally published at blog.alexwaterhousehayward.com.