Classic and Contemporary Poetry
FLAME, by HERMAN FORD MARTIN First Line: It was april. In the orchard Last Line: "go to search the city." Subject(s): Wandering & Wanderers | ||||||||
It was April. In the orchard, A gay, wine-tinted brake, Burned an ancient magic To make a lad's heart ache. There I found him sleeping On a bed of gold. A thousand perfumes drenched him From wind and brimming mould. His face was brown from sun and sea, And seamed with sin and pleasure; And he was as old as the gnarled hills To my young measure. Bravely I shook his shoulder Till he looked up at me. His eyes were like charred faggots Smouldering internally. I said: "My father's anger Is a blighting thing to know. He always sets the dogs on tramps, I think you'd better go. "Three years ago a stranger To our village came. His voice was like the singing sea, And in his eyes a flame. "My mother went away with him Without a word or a kiss. My father never spoke her name From that day to this." Strangely he stared up at me With his eyes like smothered fires, And here was question and answer To all a lad's desire. "You say," he mused, "he had a flame Within his eyes? God pity then your mother, lad, Who fed his hungry lies. "We, whom the flame illumes, Are marked for sacrament. No woman's arm can cage us, Nay, nor a continent. "Our sires were roving minstrels In olden times, Sprinkling court and countryside With their tinkling rhymes. "And for some penance, we must go Winning only loss; But from our ranks -- a Dante, A Christ upon a cross. "Always beyond each border A hidden wonder waits. We are the spenders of beauty, Immortal profligates. "Women are but taverns To quench a moment's thirst, Then drunk again with stars and tunes We go our way accurst. "Ah, lad, you say he had a flame, And a singing voice? God pity then your mother For her enravished choice." Then I saw my father Listening stiffly there; And his face was frozen With a stark despair. "Come, my son," he said to me; And: "Vagabond, there's still Something left from breakfast Your magic mouth to fill." That night he called her name again, Terrible with pity; And: "Son, my son, to-morrow we Go to search the city." | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...A FOLK SINGER OF THE THIRTIES by JAMES DICKEY WANDERER IN A FOREIGN COUNTRY by CLARENCE MAJOR THE WANDERER: A ROCOCO STUDY (FIRST VERSION) by WILLIAM CARLOS WILLIAMS THE WANDERER by WYSTAN HUGH AUDEN LONG GONE by STERLING ALLEN BROWN |
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