Advice: A Book of Poems. Maxwell Bodenheim

      Who can make grass-blades

      Arcades for pertly careless straying?

      You alone, who skim against these leaves,

      Turning all desire into light whips

      Moulded by your deep blue wing-tips,

      You who shrill your unconcern

      Into the sternly antique sky.

      You to whom all things

      Hold an equal kiss of touch.

      Mincing, wanton blue-bird,

      Grimace at the hoofs of passing men.

      You alone can lose yourself

      Within a sky, and rob it of its blue!

TO A FRIEND

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      Your head is steel cut into drooping lines

      That make a mask satirically meek:

      Your face is like a tired devil weak

      From drinking many vague and unsought wines.

      The sullen skepticism of your eyes

      For ever trying to transcend itself,

      Is often entered by a wistful elf

      Who sits naïvely unperturbed and wise.

      And this same remnant, with its youthful wiles

      Held curiously apart from blasphemies,

      Twirls starlight shivers out upon your sneers

      And changes them to little, startled smiles.

      And all your insolence drops to its knees

      Before the half-won grandeur of past years.

ADVICE TO A WOMAN

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      The sloping lines of your shoulders

      Speak of Chinese pagodas.

      They clash with your western face

      Where child and courtesan

      Clasp each other in a feigned embrace.

      Life, to you, is a liquid mirror.

      You stand with delicate, perpetual amazement,

      Vainly seeking your reflection.