RED IS THE COLOR OF BLOOD
by: Conrad Aiken (1889-1973)
- ED is the
color of blood, and I will seek it:
- I have sought it in the grass.
- It is the color of steep sun seen through eyelids.
-
- It is hidden under the suave flesh of women--
- Flows there, quietly flows.
- It mounts from the heart to the temples, the singing mouth--
- As cold sap climbs to the rose.
- I am confused in webs and knots of scarlet
- Spun from the darkness;
- Or shuttled from the mouths of thirsty spiders.
-
- Madness for red! I devour the leaves of autumn.
- I tire of the green of the world.
- I am myself a mouth for blood ...
-
- Here, in the golden haze of the late slant sun,
- Let us walk, with the light in our eyes,
- To a single bench from the outset predetermined.
- Look: there are seagulls in these city skies,
- Kindled against the blue.
- But I do not think of the seagulls, I think of you.
-
- Your eyes, with the late sun in them,
- Are like blue pools dazzled with yellow petals.
- This pale green suits them well.
-
- Here is your finger, with an emerald on it:
- The one I gave you. I say these things politely--
- But what I think beneath them, who can tell?
-
- For I think of you, crumpled against a whiteness;
- Flayed and torn, with a dulled face.
- I think of you, writing, a thing of scarlet,
- And myself, rising red from that embrace.
-
- November sun is sunlight poured through honey:
- Old things, in such a light, grow subtle and fine.
- Bare oaks are like still fire.
- Talk to me: now we drink the evening's wine.
- Look, how our shadows creep along the grave!--
- And this way, how the gravel begins to shine!
-
- This is the time of day for recollections,
- For sentimental regrets, oblique allusions,
- Rose-leaves, shrivelled in a musty jar.
- Scatter them to the wind! There are tempests coming.
- It is dark, with a windy star.
-
- If human mouths were really roses, my dear,--
- (Why must we link things so?--)
- I would tear yours petal by petal with slow murder.
- I would pluck the stamens, the pistils,
- The gold and the green,--
- Spreading the subtle sweetness that was your breath
- On a cold wave of death....
-
- Now let us walk back, slowly, as we came.
- We will light the room with candles; they may shine
- Like rows of yellow eyes.
- Your hair is like spun fire, by candle-flame.
- You smile at me--say nothing. You are wise.
-
- For I think of you, flung down brutal darkness;
- Crushed and red, with pale face.
- I think of you, with your hair disordered and dripping.
- And myself, rising red from that embrace.
"Red is the Color of Blood"
is reprinted from The Charnel Rose. Conrad Aiken. Boston:
Four Seas Company, 1918. |
MORE
POEMS BY CONRAD AIKEN |
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