human
Can you continue this poem for me?
  Translated from the Original Bornese into English Verse by
author of "The Love Sonnets of a Hoodlum,"
with eight illustrations and cover design by
sentiment and philosophy they have points of superiority over the
Persia was brought into the proper realm of English poesy. What
"There's Comfort only in the Smoking Car."
"Indeed, the Idols I have loved so long
Have done my credit in Men's eyes much wrong.''
"O foozied Poetasters, fogged with Wine,
Who to your Orgies bid the Muses Nine,
Go bid them then, but leave to me, the Tenth
Whose name is Nicotine, for she is mine!''
"Enough! - of Kisses can there be Enough?"
chroniclers the quatrain (number XCVIII) -
"Then let the balmed Tobacco be my Sheath,
The ardent Weed above me and beneath,
And let me like a living Incense rise,
A Fifty-Cent Cigar between my Teeth,"
 "Sohrab and Rustam'' being a fragment of the Persian epic.
He lets me have good tobacco, and he does not
Sophisticate it with sack-lees or oil,
Nor washes it in muscadel and grains,
Nor buries it in gravel underground,
Wrapped up in greasy leather or sour clouts;
But keeps it in fine lily-pots, that, opened,
Smell like conserve of roses or French beans.
Therefore, O Love, because to all Life's plans
And projects some promotion thou impartest,
Thou still hast many zealous artisans,
Tho' not one artist.
Avaunt, acerbid Brat of Death, that sours
The Milk of Life and blasts the nascent Flowers!
Back to your morbid, mouldering Cairns, and let
Me do my worrying in Office Hours!
What though Gorgona at the Portal knocks
And charms the squamiest Serpent in her Locks -
I wear tobacchanalian Wreaths of Smoke
And there are more Perfectos in the box.
Now the New Year, reviving old Desires,
The craving Phoenix rises from its Fires.
Indeed, indeed Repentance oft I swore,
But last Year's Pledge with this New Year expires.
Mark how Havana's sensuous-philtred Mead
Dispels the cackling Hag of Night at Need,
And, foggy-aureoled, the Smoke reveals
The Poppy Flowers that blossom from the Weed.
Come, fill the Pipe, and in the Fire of Spring
The Cuban Leaves upon the Embers fling,
That in its Incense I may sermonize
On Woman's Ways and all that sort of Thing.
While the tired Dog Watch hailed the sea-merged Star
I heard the Voice of Travellers from Afar
Making Lament with many an Ivory Yawn,
"There's Comfort only in the Smoking Car!"
See, heavenly Zamperina, damselish,
The Day has broken Night's unwholesome Dish,
The Lark is up betimes to hail the Dawn,
The Early Worm is up to catch the Fish.
Let us infest the Lintel of the Gloam
And chase the Steeds from Morning's Hippodrome,
And let Aurora's wastrel Wanderings be
A good Excuse to stay away from Home.
Illumes your Eyes that languored gaze and wait
And in their Incandescence seem to ask
The world-old Question: "Is my Hat On Straight?"
Than Basilisk or Nenuphar more fair,
Your Locks with countless glistening Pendants glare,
Then as the Fountain patters to the brim
A hundred Hairpins tumble from your Hair.
So let them scatter, jangled in Duress.
What reckons Love of Hairpins more or less?
Guard well your Heart and let the Hairpins go -
To lose your Heart were arrant Carelessness.
Acephalous Time to febrous Lengths bestirred
Strips the lush Blossom and outstrips the Bird,
Makes sweet the Wine - I cannot say the Same
Of Women or of Songs that I have heard.
With me along that mezzotinted Zone
Where Hymen Spring is hymning to his Own -
See how grave Mahmud gambols on the Glebe
And hangs the sign TO LET upon his Throne!
A Grand Piano underneath the Bough,
Trying to sing an Anthem off the Key -
Oh, Paradise were Wilderness enow?
Chromatic Catches troll from yonder Hill
Where Bill to Beak the Wren and Whip-poor-Will
assistant
Sure, a continuation for this poem could be:
  In deed and truth beshrew the Beldam Life
Who kisses first and then presents the Bill.
As one who by the Sphinx delays a space
And on her Shoulder finds a Resting Place,
Breathes an awed Question in her stupored Ear.
And lights a Sulphur Match upon her Face,
So unto Venus' Oracle in turn
I leaned the Secret of my Love to learn.
The Answering Riddle came: "She loves you, yes,
In just Proportion to the Sum you Earn."
Some by Eolian Aloes borne along
Swound on the Dulcimer's reverbrant Thong;
But I, who make my Mecca in a Kiss,
Begrudge the Lips that waste their Time in Song.
Some clamour much for kisses, some for Few,
Others deep sup, their Thirstings to renew,
And mumble into Maunderings, but I,
In Kissing, scorn the How Much for the Who.
Svelte Zamperina's Lips incarnadine,
And languored lifting, fasten unto mine,
Their rubric Message giving Hint and Clew
How frequently a Kiss in Time saves Nine.
Then swart Gorgona rears her snaky Zone
Demanding Sip of Lip in poisonous Tone
While back Abaft I cower, for well I wot
A Face like that needs not a Chaperone.
The Fair of Vanity has many a Booth
To sell its spangled Wares of Age and Youth;
And there have I beheld the Wordlings buy
Their Paris Gowns to clothe the Naked Truth.
But cannot Beauty render Sin the less
When Aphroditan Damosels transgress,
Making the Error lovely with the Thought -
Into your Soul may truculent Daemons pass
All hugger-mugger in that dun Morass,
But while the Rouge is mantling to your Cheek,
Nothing will chide you in your Looking-Glass.
Unto the Glass Gorgona torques her Eye
Beholding there Ten Myriad Fragments fly,
The Parts dispersing with lugubrious Din -
Who will invent a Mirror that will lie?
Oft have I heard the Cant of flattering Friend
Admire my Forehead's Apollonic Bend,
Then to the Glass I've wreathed my sad Regard -
The Looking-Glass is candid to the End.
Look to the Rose who, as I pass her by,
Breathes the fond Attar-musk up to the Sky,
Spreading her silken Blushes - does she know
That I have come to smell and not to Buy?
Ah, Rose, assume a gentle Avarice
And hoard the soft Allurements that entice;
For One will come who holds the Golden Means
To buy your Blushes at the Standard Price.
Down to the Deeps of Sheol, anguish-torn,
I've hurtled Beauty to a State forlorn,
With what an Equanimity 'tis borne!
What shallow Guerdon of terrestrial Strife,
For him who quits this Donjon Keep of Life,
To read the World's expectant Epitaph:
"He left a handsome Widow in his Wife!"
Before the Dawn's Encroachment I awoke
And heard again the bodeful Adage spoke:
Society Engagements are like Eggs -
You know not what's Inside them till they're Broke.
Creation stands between the Won't and Will,
Yes, and that Doubt Infinitude might fill -
It took nine Tailors once to make a Man;
It took nine more to make him pay the Bill.
The Thunderbolts of Heaven's potent Sway
Gather and break, but never can dismay
When Indestructible Resistless meets,
The Please Remit confronts the Cannot Pay.
And true as Star and Star pursue their Course
Must Rapture crumb to Ashes of Remorse:
How many a Marriage License that is writ
Has proved a legal Permit to Divorce!
Myself when young did eagerly frequent
A Woman's Club and heard great Argument
'Twas by much Gossip of the Fashions rent.
In them the Seed of Wisdom did I sow,
Speaking of Things a Woman ought to know.
"Better than Years with Ibsen spent," I said,
"One Evening with my Friend, Boccacio."
And that same Bard who strews rhythmatic Daisies
And many a Female Heart discreetly crazes,
Seek him not out, fair Maid, for oftentimes
His Head is vastly Balder than his Phrases.
Has writ in Stars the fiery Idem Stat,
rather write than read a Book like that.
Better a meager Tome to sow the Seed
Of errant Thought and Fancy's Lantern feed;
Better a Penny Dreadful than the Book
That sends you into Slumber when you read.
And better still than these gorglorious Things
The Briar's gracious Narcotine that clings
To my ambrosial Temples till I wear
A Halo-crown of vapoured Vortex Rings.
Virginia for the Pipe's sweet Charity,
Havana for Cigars to solace me,
And Turkey for the transient Cigarette -
Was all I learned of my Geography.
Cigars I puff devoutly when I May,
And when I Can the Pipe, another Day,
And when I Must I browse on Cigarettes -
Then, as you love me, take the Stubs away!
Waste not your Weed, the Leaves are all too few
It's Nectar to defile as Others do -
Ah, shun the Solecism and the Plug
For Cattle-Kings and Stevedores to chew.
Once in a Dream 'twas granted unto me
The open Gates of Paradise to see,
While Israfel loud chanted from the Void,
"This Vision comes of Pie; not Piety!"
Belovèd, smoke my amber Pipe awhile
And from its Bowl narcotic Joys beguile,
Suck Lethe from its Stem - what though I trace
A certain greenish Pallour in your Smile?
Strange is it not that, oft her Dolour cloaking
In hurried Puffs with Nonchalance provoking,
No woman reads that apodictic Ode
"How to be Happy Even Though You're Smoking?"
Look not so wild, the Fit will pass away -
No barbèd Anguish chooses long to stay,
And only in the Pipe is Friendship
found That waxes Strong and Stronger day by day.
Come, rest your Head if Earth rotative seems
And close your Lids from these o'er wakeful Gleams -
Although your Palate cringe you shall not shrink
Murkly I muse on that transcendent State
Where all my Pasts within the Future wait -
If I for Heavenly Marriages am marked,
Oh what a Turk I'll be beyond the Gate!
Minnie and Maud across my Flight will wing,
Birdie and Bess and Gwendolyn will bring
A Score of Other Pasts and make a Scene,
Some I have known are jabbering in Hell,
Others have passed in Heaven's Reward to dwell;
So, when my Soul has flitted, must I find
The same bland Bores, the same old Tales to tell.
There is the Thought beneath whose vampire Tooth
The Soul outshrieks at such unseemly Sooth:
The Solemn Bore still waits beyond the Grave -
Ah, let me stay and taste undying Youth!
Into some secret, migrant Realm without,
By the dun Cloak of Darkness wrapped about,
Or by ringed Saturn's Swirl thou may'st be hid
In vain: be sure the Bore will find you out.
Were't not a shame, were't not a shame I say,
That in this sorry Brotherhood of Clay
No Necromance the Philtre can distil
To keep Mosquitoes, Death and Bores away?
Northly or Southly may I ride or walk
Beneath the glacial Crag or fronded Stalk,
But still the Spectre gibbers in my Ears
And drowns my Spirits in a Sea of Talk.
The Noun and Verb he scatters without End
And Adjectives to Pronouns Horror lend -
Ah, fumid Pipe, I thank you hour by hour
That you have never learned to talk, my Friend!
Better the pleasaunce-breathing Pipe for me
Than lodgment in that Great Menagerie
Where Birds of aureate Plumage preen their Quills
And Social Lions growl above their Tea.
The Tea, that in the magic of its Flow
Anoints the Tongue to wag of So-and-So,
To gabble garbled Garrulousness ere
You lay the Cup and Saucer down and Go.
And we that now make Madness in the Room
Where last week's Lion had his little Boom
Ourselves must go and leave that flattering Din
And let them brew another Tea - for whom?
They say the Lion and the Ladies keep
The Court where Johnson jested and drank deep;
Now Minor Poets label new Cigars
And sell their Reputations passing cheap.
O foozled Poetasters, fogged with Wine,
Who to your Orgies bid the Muses Nine,
Go bid them, then, but leave to me the Tenth,
Whose name is Nicotine, for she is mine!
Peace to the Pipe, that silent Infidel,
Whose spiral-twisted Coils Discretion spell!
How many Kisses has he seen me Give,
How many Take - and yet he will not Tell.
When Zamperina kissed her maiden Kiss,
Her Innocence betraying in the Cry,
"Oh, how can you respect me after This?"
Another Time, all dalliant and slow,
To those deluscious Lips I bended low,
And at the Second Kiss she only said,
Unto that flowery Cup I bent once more;
Again she showed no seeming to abhor,
But at the Third Kiss all she asked or wist
But One there is more sage in that Caress,
Raising no mawkish Pennant of Distress,
But when I tip the Osculative Brim
Her Lips no Questions ask - Content is hers
If her Artistic Spirit wakes and stirs,
Nor recks of those Romances Heretofore -
Engagements where I won my Brazen Spurs.
A Microbe lingers in a Kiss, you say?
Yes, but he nibbles in a pleasant Way.
Rather than in the Cup and Telephone
Better to catch him Kissing and be gay.
Enough of Kisses, whose ecstatic Stuff
Endures an Age and flickers in a Puff,
That undeservèd Web of foibled Toys,
Enough - of Kisses can there be Enough?
What, then, of Him in dizzy Heights profound
Who scans the Zenith's constellated Round?
Alas! who goes ballooning to the Stars
Too often runs his Trade into the Ground.
Little we Learn beyond the A B C -
And then S T U V W X Y Z.
A Solon ponders till his Years are great
Then in his Age he leaves the Questions to
The Delphic Gaberdine avails me not
When Laurels fester into loathly Rot,
And in his starry Shroud the Poet starves
While growing Roses in a Cabbage Lot.
Forgive, ye Wise, the Oaf who nothing knows
And glories in the Bubbles that he blows,
And while you wrestle blindly with the World,
He whistles on his Fingers and his Toes.
What good to dread the Storm's impending Black
With woful Ululation and "Alack!" -
The garbled Tenor of a sore Despite
Can never bring your lost Umbrella back.
So what of Secrets mouthed beneath the Rose,
The Lady Lodger in the Flat upstairs
Knows all you do and say - she knows - she knows!
She knows, but though her cavernous Ears are sage,
Nought can she fathom of one glyphic Page,
Nought from a Woman's Record can she tell -
I still must guess at Zamperina's Age.
Time only knows, whose spinning Axes quake
The astral Turrets where the Patient wake
To count the Stars and Planets as they pass -
Oh, what a Task for one to Undertake!
Ask not behind my moated Soul austere
One Moment on my Secret Self to peer -
Already you have seen Sufficient there
To keep me in a wholesome State of Fear.
Nay, Zamperina, save those agate Eyes
From shrewd empiric Paths where Knowledge lies;
Throw Truth to the Unlovely, when to you
It were a rash Unwisdom to be Wise.
Oh, like the Smoke that rises and is gone,
Let your own Spirit lift from Dawn to Dawn
And so bestartle Ennui that at last
Even the Grave will quite forget to yawn!
As hooded Eve behind her rosy Bars
Her soft Kinoon betinkled to the Stars,
Again to the Tobacconist's I came
And stood among the Stogies and Cigars.
Some were whose Scent exhaled the Asphodel,
And some whose Smoke gave forth a roseate Smell,
And some poor Weeds that told you at a Whiff
How they were made to Give Away, not Sell.
One said, "And can no wiser Law revoke
The Edict that foredestined me to Smoke,
My stump to be a Byword and a Jest? -
But if a Jest I fail to see the Joke."
A Second murmured, "Surely we might learn
Some undiminished Anodyne to burn,
For ne'er a Smoker puffed a good Cigar
But wished Another Like It might return."
After a momentary Silence spake
A Stogie of a bileful Pittsburg make;
"The One who puffs my Wrappings to the End
Will never ask my Memory to awake."
Then spake a Panatela finely rolled,
"If to a fiery Doom I must be sold,
Then let it be my happy Fate to find
A high-born Mouth whose Teeth are filled with Gold."
An auburn Weed uprose as one surprised.
"If for a Martyr's Death I so am prized,
May not my hallowed Ashes be preserved
That Saint Cigar I may be canonized?"
"Well," murmured One, "when in my ashen Shroud
My Stump descends to meet the shrieking Crowd,
I yet may know that in the Fire of Hell
There stands no Placard, 'Smoking Not Allowed.'"
And while this corvine Clatter still endured
A lambent Flame, by fragrant Promise lured,
Crept in, as all the Inmates cried amain,
"The Shop's afire and we are Uninsured!"
Arise, then, Zamperina, Day grows old,
The Shepherd pipes his sundered Flocks to Fold,
Your Garments quail and ripple in the Chill,
Your pagan Nose empurples with the Cold.
The How is swiftly mingling with the When,
The What describes its Orbit's round, and then
Of Why or Which nor Mite nor Mote delays
To fall in Line and get mixed up again.
I must not heed that elemental Whirl
Where Arc on Arc the trainèd Planets swirl -
The Astronomic Marvels have no charm
For him who walks the Gloaming with his Girl.
The Keeper of the Sky has hasped his Doors,
Forgetting Zal's accumulative Roars,
And drunk with Night's Elixir, prone he lies
In Warp of dreamless Sleep - and Woof of Snores.
So must I those soporic Echoes woo
When, all my intermittent Joyaunce through,
Each Thrill must be a Threnod, as I know
That They Who Kiss can teach me nothing New.
Indeed, indeed, Repentance oft before
I swore, but Was I Smoking when I swore?
And ever and anon I made Resolve
And sealed the holy Pledge - with One Puff More.
O Thou who sought our Fathers to enslave
And ev'n the Pipe to Walter Raleigh gave,
I love you still for your Redeeming Vice
And shower Tobacco Leaves upon your Grave!
Then let the balmed Tobacco be my Sheath,
The ardent Weed above me and beneath,
And let me like a Living Incense rise,
A Fifty-Cent Cigar between my Teeth.
Havana's Witch-fog murks my Horoscope
Until my dream-enamoured Senses grope
Towards the Light, where in her opal Shrine
Smiles Hopefulness, the great Reward of Hope.
Let those who to this daedal Valley throng
And by my tumid Ashes pass along,
Let them be glad with this consoling Thought:
And some expectant Devotee who knocks
At that poor House where once I rent my locks,
In vain may seek a Last Cigar and find
My Muse asleep within an empty Box.
II - Such words as "tobacchanalian" (compounded from tobacco and
bacchanalian) Lewis Carrol claimed as his own under the title of
recitations and readings from his father's works.
mediaeval literature.
LXVII - Her Lips no Questions ask;
"Lips with kissing forfeit no favour;
Nay, they increase as the moon doth ever."
LXXXV - Anodyne; some translations have this Iodine.