---

Vachel Lindsay - The Golden Whales Of California
Work rating: Low

Part I.A Short Walk Along the Coast
 
Yes, I have walked in California, 
And the rivers there are blue and white. 
Thunderclouds of grapes hang on the mountains. 
Bears in the meadows pitch and fight. 
(Limber, double- jointed lords of fate, 
Proud native sons of the Golden Gate.) 
And flowers burst like bombs in California, 
Exploding on tomb and tower. 
And the panther-cats chase the red rabbits, 
Scatter their young blood every hour. 
And the cattle on the hills of California 
And the very swine in the holes 
Have ears of silk and velvet 
And tusks like long white poles. 
And the very swine, big hearted, 
Walk with pride to their doom 
For they feed on the sacred raisins 
Where the great black agates loom. 

Goshawfuls are Burbanked with the grizzly bears. 
At midnight their children come clanking up the stairs. 
They wriggle up the canyons, 
Nose into the caves, 
And swallow the papooses and the Indian braves. 
The trees climb so high the crows are dizzy 
Flying to their nests at the top. 
While the jazz-birds screech, and storm the brazen beach 
And the sea-stars turn flip flop. 
The solid Golden Gate soars up to Heaven. 
Perfumed cataracts are hurled 
From the zones of silver snow 
To the ripening rye below, 
To the land of the lemon and the nut 
And the biggest ocean in the world. 
While the Native Sons, like lords tremendous 
Lift up their heads with chants sublime, 
And the band-stands sound the trombone, the saxophone and xylophone 
And the whales roar in perfect tune and time. 
And the chanting of the whales of California 
I have set my heart upon. 
It is sometimes a play by Belasco, 
Sometimes a tale of Prester John. 


Part II.The Chanting of the Whales
 
North to the Pole, south to the Pole 
The whales of California wallow and roll. 
They dive and breed and snort and play 
And the sun struck feed them every day 
Boatloads of citrons, quinces, cherries, 
Of bloody strawberries, plums and beets, 
Hogsheads of pomegranates, vats of sweets, 
And the he-whales chant like a cyclone blares, 
Proclaiming the California noons 
So gloriously hot some days 
The snake is fried in the desert 
And the flea no longer plays. 
There are ten gold suns in California 
When all other lands have one, 
For the Golden Gate must have due light 
And persimmons be well-done. 
And the hot whales slosh and cool in the wash 
And the fume of the hollow sea. 
Rally and roam in the loblolly foam 
And whoop that their souls are free. 
(Limber, double- jointed lords of fate, 
Proud native sons of the Golden Gate.) 
And they chant of the forty-niners 

Who sailed round the cape for their loot 
With guns and picks and washpans 
And a dagger in each boot. 
How the richest became the King of England, 
The poorest became the King of Spain, 
The bravest a colonel in the army, 
And a mean one went insane. 
The ten gold suns are so blasting 
The sunstruck scoot for the sea 
And turn to mermen and mermaids 
And whoop that their souls are free. 
(Limber, double- jointed lords of fate, 
Proud native sons of the Golden Gate.) 
And they take young whales for their bronchos 
And old whales for their steeds, 
Harnessed with golden seaweeds, 
And driven with golden reeds. 
They dance on the shore throwing rose-leaves. 
They kiss all night throwing hearts. 
They fight like scalded wildcats 
When the least bit of fighting starts. 
They drink, these belly-busting devils 
And their tremens shake the ground. 
And then they repent like whirlwinds 

And never were such saints found. 
They will give you their plug tobacco. 
They will give you the shirts off their backs. 
They will cry for your every sorrow, 
Put ham in your haversacks. 
And they feed the cuttlefishes, whales and skates 
With dates and figs in bales and crates : 
Shiploads of sweet potatoes, peanuts, rutabagas, 
Honey in hearts of gourds: 
Grapefruits and oranges barrelled with apples, 
And spices like sharp sweet swords.


Part III.St. Francis of San Francisco 

But the surf is white, down the long strange coast 
With breasts that shake with sighs, 
And the ocean of all oceans 
Holds salt from weary eyes. 
St. Francis comes to his city at night 
And stands in the brilliant electric light 
And his swans that prophesy night and day 
Would soothe his heart that wastes away : 
The giant swans of California 
That nest on the Golden Gate 
And beat through the clouds serenely 

And on St. Francis wait. 
But St. Francis shades his face in his cowl 
And stands in the street like a lost grey owl. 
He thinks of gold . . . gold. 
He sees on far redwoods 
Dewfall and dawning: 
Deep in Yosemite 
Shadows and shrines: 
He hears from far valleys 
Prayers by young Christians, 
He sees their due penance 
So cruel, so cold ; 
He sees them made holy, 
White-souled like young aspens 
With whimsies and fancies untold: 
The opposite of gold. 
And the mighty mountain swans of California 
Whose eggs are like mosque domes of Ind, 
Cry with curious notes 
That their eggs are good for boats 
To toss upon the foam and the wind. 
He beholds on far rivers 
The venturesome lovers 
Sailing for the sea 
All night 

In swanshells white. 
He sees them far on the ocean prevailing 
In a year and a month and a day of sailing 
Leaving the whales and their whoop unfailing 
On through the lightning, ice and confusion 
North of the North Pole, 
South of the jgouth Pole, 
And west of the west of the west of the west, 
To the shore of Heartache s Cure, 
The opposite of gold, 
On and on like Columbus 
With faith and eggshell sure. 


Part IV. The Voice of the Earthquake 

But what is the earthquake s cry at last 
Making St. Francis yet aghast: 
" Oh the flashing cornucopia of haughty 
From here on, the audience California joins in the 

Is gold, gold, gold. 
Their brittle speech and their clutching reach 
Is gold, gold, gold. 
What is the fire-engine s ding dong bell? 
The burden of the burble of the bull-frog in the well? 
Gold, gold, gold. 

What is the color of the cup and plate 
And knife and fork of the chief of state? 
Gold, gold, gold. 
What is the flavor of the Bartlett pear? 
What is the savor of the salt sea air? 
Gold, gold, gold. 
What is the color of the sea-girl s hair? 
Gold, gold, gold. 
In the church of Jesus and the streets of Venus: 
Gold, gold, gold. 
What color are the cradle and the bridal bed? 
What color are the coffins of the great grey dead? 
Gold, gold, gold. 
What is the hue of the big whales hide? 
Gold, gold, gold. 
What is the color, of their guts* inside? 
Gold, gold, gold. 
" What is the color of the pumpkins in the moonlight? 
Gold, gold, gold. 
The color of the moth and the worm in the starlight? 
Gold, gold, gold.
Source
The script ran 0.002 seconds.