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Classic and Contemporary Poetry
AMSTERDAM, by FRANCIS JAMMES Poet's Biography First Line: The pointed houses lean so you would swear Last Line: Under a gable: here lived francis jammes. Subject(s): Amsterdam, Netherlands; Jammes, Francis (1868-1938); Memory; Paintings & Painters; Travel; Journeys; Trips | |||
THE pointed houses lean so you would swear That they were falling. Tangled vessel masts Like leafless branches lean against the sky Amid a mass of green, and red, and rust, Red herrings, sheepskins, coal along the quays. Robinson Crusoe passed through Amsterdam, (At least I think he did), when he returned From the green isle shaded with cocoa-trees. What were the feeling of his heart before These heavy knockers and these mighty doors? ... Did he look through the window-panes and watch The clerks who write in ledgers all day long? Did tears come in his eyes when he remembered His parrot, and the heavy parasol Which shaded him in the sad and clement isle? "Glory to thee, good Lord," he would exclaim, Looking at chests with tulip-painted lids. But, saddened by the joy of the return, He must have mourned his kid left in the vines Alone, and haply on the island dead. I have imagined this before the shops Which make you think of Jews who handle scales, With bony fingers knotted with green rings. See! Amsterdam under a shroud of snow Sleeps in a scent of fog and bitter coal. Last night the white globes of the lighted inns, Whence issue heavy women's whistled calls, Were hanging down like fruits resembling gourds. Posters blue, red, and green shone on their walls. The bitter pricking of their sugared beer Rasped on my tongue and gave my nose the itch. And in the Jewry where detritus lies, You smell the raw, cold reek of fresh-caught fish. The slippery flags are strown with orange-peel. Some swollen face would open staring eyes, A wrangling arm moved onions to and fro. Rebecca, from your little tables you Were selling sticky sweets, a scanty show. ... The sky seemed pouring, like a filthy sea, A tide of vapor into the canals. Smoke that one does not see, commercial calm Rose from the husked roofs and rich table-cloths, And from the houses' comfort India breathed. Fain had I been one of those merchant princes, Who sailed in olden days from Amsterdam To China, handing over their estate And home affairs to trusty mandatories. Like Robinson before a notary I would have signed my pompous procuration. Then honesty had piled from day to day My riches more, and flowered them like a moon-beam Upon my laden ships' imposing prows. And in my house the nabobs of Bombay Would have been tempted by my florid spouse. The Mogul would have sent a gold-ringed negro To traffic, with a smiling row of teeth, Under his spreading parasol. And he Would have enchanted with his savage tales My eldest girl, to whom he would have given A robe of rubies cut by cunning slaves. I should have had my family portrayed By some poor wretch whose paintings lived and breathed: My plump and sumptuous wife with rosy face, My sons, whose beauty would have charmed the town, My daughters, with their pure and different grace. And so to-day, instead of being myself, I should have been another, visiting A pompous mansion of old Amsterdam, Launching my soul before the plain devise, Under a gable: Here lived Francis Jammes. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...RICHARD, WHAT'S THAT NOISE? by RICHARD HOWARD LOOKING FOR THE GULF MOTEL by RICHARD BLANCO RIVERS INTO SEAS by LYNDA HULL DESTINATIONS by JOSEPHINE JACOBSEN THE ONE WHO WAS DIFFERENT by RANDALL JARRELL THE CONFESSION OF ST. JIM-RALPH by DENIS JOHNSON SESTINA: TRAVEL NOTES by WELDON KEES TO H. B. (WITH A BOOK OF VERSE) by MAURICE BARING |
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