Seaweed From Mars

I 'Have you ever played a violin Larger than ten thousand stars And warmer than what you call sin?' Torban, a young man from Mars, Gave me the stretch of his voice, And my 'no' fell down like a pin On the echoed din of his words. He said: 'Then I have no choice. I must use the barrenly involved Words with which you have not solved The wistful riddles of your days. Leave the pale and ruddy herds Of men, with their surrendering ways, And come with me to Mars.' II Drums of Autumn beat on Mars, Calling our minds to reunion. The avenues of seaweed spars Have attained a paleness Equal to that of earthly philosophies, And the trees have lost The diamond violence of Spring. Their purple leaves have turned grey Just as a human religion Gradually changes to pretence. In Mars we have only two seasons, Spring and Autumn- their reasons Rest in a treacherous sun that suddenly runs away, Creating a twilight-suspense. When the sun reappears Mars is once more amazed By the blazing flatteries of Spring. Again the heavy leaves ring With odor and light deftly pressed Into a stormy chorus. Then we abandon the screaming violins Of our minds, and each man wins An understanding rest. Once more we roam and jest Upon the avenues, with voices One shade louder than the leaves, Or sail upon the choral seas And trade our words with molten ease. Throughout the Autumn we stand Still and deserted, while our minds Leap into sweeping tensions Blending sound and form Into one search across the universe. III What do we find in this search? All of your earthly words lurch Feebly upon the outskirts of my mind, And when they pass beyond them, they are blind. Outward forms are but the graves Of sound, and all the different waves Of light and odor, they are sound That floats unshaped and loosely gowned. When sound is broken into parts Your ears receive the smaller arts, But when it drifts in broad release You cannot hear its louder peace. Your houses, hills, and flesh of red Are shapes of sound, asleep or dead. In Mars a stronger Spring of sound Revives our forms and makes Profound Music, softer than the dins That rose from Autumn violins. Our minds, whose tense excursions spread In chase of noisy walls that fled, Relent and drop within our heads, Enjoying the timid sound of their beds. Filled with a gracious weariness, We place it, like a lighter dress, Upon the sounds from other stars Brought back to celebrate on Mars. IV A girl of Mars is burning Notes of thought within her throat. Her pale white lips are turning The fire to storied chords. The song is old but often made By girls who sit in Spring and braid The lanterned language of their hair. Its spacious gaiety cannot be sold To your narrow glow of words. The hint that I shall give is cold And like the sound of snowy air. I shall journey with the men When my curling thoughts are ten. O the sternness of that number! Colored sounds from breath to umber Promising a first release. I have dwelt too long in peace Placing smallness on my breast. The prisoned whisper of my skin Longs to vanish in the din Of Autumn when great sounds are caught. Let the tall wildness of my thought Stride beside the thundering grace Of the man whose spring-time face Brought me tiny notes of rest. She sits within a house of stone That lends a wise and balanced tone: A roofless house whose walls are low And level with her head's grey glow. The bright sounds of her parents fly Around the house- we do not die In Mars, but change to gleams of sounds And stay within our gayer rounds Until when tired Spring has gone We lead the Autumn searchers on. Before we change, our bodies curve Like yours save that our skins are gray: Light shades of gray that almost swerve To white, like earthly men who pray. V We do not love and hate in Mars. These earthly cries are flashing bars Of sound from which our minds are free. They stand in our mythology: Legends elusive and weird, Acrid Gods that once were feared. They vanished imperceptibly And none among us can agree Upon the tangled way in which they fled. Starlit symbols of dread, They slowly exhausted themselves and died In striding heralds of a wilder bride. We have no emotions in Mars. They are like long-healed wounds Whose scars are softened by the gleam of our minds. We approach them with clearer kinds Of sound from deeply resting thought. Our youths and maidens have not caught The treacherous and tightly bound Confusion of your loving sound, For sex to us is but the ring Of different shades of thought in Spring When men recline upon the breast Of women, dissolving into thoughtful rest. In Autumn sex is left behind. Men and women no longer lined By different bodies raise their dins Above the screaming violins.