Henry Bellamann - 6 Short Poems (1921-1928)

Forgotten Poems #120 || Reissue #24

    
              —: Sand Hills :—

       The world is spread with rough grained silk,
       crumpled a little where the sky indents it
       and cuts off the view.

       The very old gods,
       long since tired of northern lights
       and seas too jewelled
       and snows too glittering,—
       tired, too, of men,—
       the very old gods come here
       in the late evening
       to sit quietly on the warm gray silk
       and rest their eyes
       with milky opal tints
       and the smoky blue
       flecked by the dim fire of giant stars.
    

    
              —: Song of Discontent :—

                            I.

       I said my thoughts were fixed and clear
       As the hard writing of bare branches
       Against March skies.
       I had believed the wintry plains
       Would sooner bloom with hyacinth
       Than those ashy limbs
       Be frivolous with flowers.

       The dogwood has betrayed me—
       Its austere fingers
       Juggle a sudden constellation
       Of giddy stars;
       The peach trees swarm with blossoms
       Like rose winged bees:
       The shadow of the Judas tree
       Is blurred with shaking fire.

                            II.

       You know how well I play with words—
       How I have made of them
       Eager birds to search strange skies,
       Trained them as leopards
       To leap and snarl,—
       How I have made them
       Thin breathed music
       To flutter on a thread of gold.

       You know how well I play with words . . .

       And now the thing I wish to say,
       Wish most to say,
       Slides like light
       From spinning silver balls,
       Goes like fire on running water . . .

       My words drift,
           (Pale moths)
                Into the dark!
    

    
              —: The Cottonwood :—

       Quivering day
       Flooding out to the white rim of sky,
       Quicksilver wash among the shadows; 
       Stillness crowding upon the house.
       Outside the window, green leaves 
       Stir in their noon sleep 
       And—
       Singing mirage of silence—
       A sound of rain in a dusty land.
    

    
              —: Carolina April :—

       The sacrament of spring
       Discant of surfaces,
       A silver net on the black seethe
       Of waters,
       The scurry of hyacinths
       On hidden tides of earth, 
       Pallor of moon-wrenched cactus bloom.
       The smother of pinched strings,
       The rack of silence,
       The thin cruelty of harmonics:
       These are the flesh wrung verities—
       Discant of ancient agonies.
     

   
              —: Hill Trees :—

       Plunge toward the valley,
       Hill trees!

       Snap the sly vines,
       Beseech the still valleys—
       Wolf winds are in the ways,
       Wolf winds!

       (Sycamore skeletons
       rot on the rocks.)

       Sleek sided winds
       Breathe cold in the ways.
       Twist out of their paths,
       Seek the soft flowing grass,
       Leap like green swirling seas—

       Wolf winds are in the ways,
       Wolf winds!
    

    
              —: Winter  Burial :—

       Earth, will you be kind to her?
       I give her back . . .
       Will your clumsy rocks and clay
       Break her silk and pearl and ivory
       To dust? . . .

       . . . Or shall I see a little creeping flush
       Of first flowers along that slope
       Next spring?
    

Henry Bellamann (1882-1945) was born in Fulton, Missouri; “Musician and head of a music school, living in Columbia, South Carolina.” (Poetry, 1921) Studied piano at the University of Denver in Colorado, and then became a music teacher, working at a variety of schools, including Juilliard Musical Foundation, the Curtis Institute of Music, and Vassar College (one of only two universities in America to offer degrees to women, at the time).

Due to Katherine McKee Jones’ encouragement—Bellmann’s wife—he began publishing his writing, releasing three books of poetry in the 1920s—A Music Teacher's Notebook (1920), Cups of Illusion (1923), and The Upward Pass (1928)—and numerous novels throughout his life, including the bestseller King’s Row in 1940, which was popular enough to be made into a film in 1942, starring Ann Sheridan, Robert Cummings, and Ronald Reagan.

   
              —: For Henry Bellamann :—
                          by Dick Whyte

“. . . tides draw ever and ever to these inconsistent coasts,
striving to mould some shape unknown to us, striving to
sound some music strange to us . . .”

       to the builders of horizons
       who foretold the ages of water—

       who predicted the positions of stars—
       the placement of letters—

       yours is a care we still crave
   

POETRY PROMPT

Use the quote: “Tides draw ever and ever to these inconsistent coasts, striving to mould some shape unknown to us, striving to sound some music strange to us...” as a starting point for a short poem, and leave it in the comments.

Happy writing!

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