Agnes Cornell - 5 Short Poems (1920-24)

Forgotten Poems #83

      
              —: Song in the Desert :—

      The wind
      And sand have washed my floor
      Until it’s white as milk.

       A cactus bloom
       Fell on my floor today.

       A wild bird
       Darted in the door,
       Beat his wings against the wall
       And then flew out.

       At night
       The wind too light—
       Or was it wind?—
       Came in . . . .
       

     
              —: Acceptance :—

           And if the wall
       Be blank
       The stars gone out,
       So be it—
       “I am no better than my fathers.”
       

     
              —: 3 Desert Songs :—

                              I

       Vastness immeasurable
       Silence:
       Sky and sand are one

       Silence:
       I am begot and die and come again to earth . . .
       Yet I make no move.

       Vastness immeasurable
       Silence:
       Sky and sand are one

       Silence:
       Now a bird and another rise
       And lose themselves in the horizon.

       Silence:
       I am begot and die and come again to earth . . .
       Yet I make no move.

                              II

       I often go that way at sundown
       I know the way—
       I know the way that takes the last shift of the hill.
       From there on is nothing but the sheer horizon's rim—
       Nothing but the silence—silence—
       And my soul along the sand,
       Or maybe now and then a bird.

                              III

       It wouldn't be there if I went back
       And remembering would kill me:
       Only the shadows would creep on the floor
       And the wind cry at the door.
       It wouldn't be there if I went back,
       And remembering would kill me.—
      

     
              —: Night Fall After Wind :—

       Oh desert infinite!
       Now the wind has died
       And left the great heart still:
       The ocean of white sand subsides
       The wind reeds hardly breathe,
       The distant hills grow dim;
       Steeped in mist
       Deep stars burn,
       Birdlings call,
       From the cactus comes the dove's low note—
       Great heart—thou art still,
       How still!
        .     .     .     .     .     .     .     .     .
       Oh may it be at nightfall,
       My own wild heart will rest
       Tremulous, wild wind reed
       Lie down with thee and sleep,
       Great heart!
       Lie down with thee and sleep.
      

    
              —: The Desert Moon
                         Before A Sandstorm :—

       Tonight
       I saw the full-moon rise
       Strange, stranger than all nights before;
       A huge moon, stifling streams of fire—
       Rose-fire into a dim mauve sea.

       I felt it—the fire
       Sift through me,
       Rose-fire sifting through me
       Into a dim mauve sea.
 

Agnes Cornell was a poet from New York, who; “Divided her time between New York City and the Southwest desert, coming to the desert for contrast; and fondness for it as a mental work-shop.” (Overland Monthly & Out West, 1924) Though Cornell was clearly an accomplished poet, little is known of her life, beyond her being published in numerous underground poetry magazines like Pegasus, The Wanderer, and Poet Lore throughout the 1920s.

Woodcut by Mitchell Dawson (Condor Magazine, 1919).

Today’s response poem was written while I was preparing this post, and having a comment-chat with

Ann Collins

—who writes the wonderful newsletter Microseasons (which I highly recommend checking out if you haven’t already)—about seeds and gardening (for anyone who’s interested, my parsley and coriander are going really well, and for the first time in my adult life I succeeded in growing food with my own hands—it is an fantastic feeling to eat something I grew—and it teaches me a lot about poetry). At the end of the conversation she challenged me to write a poem (somewhat tongue in cheek haha), but I was feeling inspired by our chat and Cornell’s poems, so I sat down and started writing;

     
              For Agnes Cornell & Ann Collins
                             by Dick Whyte

                       I.

       a seed is a universe
       folded so tight

       there is no difference
       between
       growth & love

                       II.

       every poet
       should become a garden,

       words are a poor
       substitute
       for life

                       III.

       one kind of oracle:

       learn when to plant
       & when not to,

       always be happy
       when it rains
      

Forgotten Poets Presents:

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More poems about wind . . .

More poems about birds . . .

More poems about the desert . . .

More poems about the moon . . .

More poems about silence . . .