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Harold Hart Crane - Cutty Sark
Work rating: Low

I met a man in South Street, tall— 
a nervous shark tooth swung on his chain. 
His eyes pressed through green glass 
—green glasses, or bar lights made them 
so— 
shine— 
GREEN— 
eyes— 
stepped out—forgot to look at you 
or left you several blocks away— 


in the nickel-in-the-slot piano jogged 
“Stamboul Nights”—weaving somebody’s nickel—sang 


O Stamboul Rose—dreams weave the rose! 


Murmurs of Leviathan he spoke, 
and rum was Plato in our heads . . . 


“It’s S.S. Ala—Antwerp—now remember kid 
to put me out at three she sails on time. 
I’m not much good at time any more keep 
weakeyed watches sometimes snooze—” his bony hands 
got to beating time . . . “A whaler once— 
I ought to keep time and get over it—I’m a 
Democrat—I know what time it is—No 
I don’t want to know what time it is—that 
damned white Arctic killed my time . . . ” 


O Stamboul Rose—drums weave— 


“I ran a donkey engine down there on the Canal 
in Panama—got tired of that— 
then Yucatan selling kitchenware—beads— 
have you seen Popocatepetl—birdless mouth 
with ashes sifting down—? 
and then the coast again . . . ” 


Rose of Stamboul O coral Queen— 
teased remnants of the skeletons of cities— 
and galleries, galleries of watergutted lava 
snarling stone—green—drums—drown— 


Sing! 
“—that spiracle!” he shot a finger out the door . . . 
"O life’s a geyser—beautiful—my lungs— 
No—I can’t live on land—!" 


I saw the frontiers gleaming of his mind; 
or are there frontiers—running sands sometimes 
running sands—somewhere—sands running . . . 
Or they may start some white machine that sings. 
Then you may laugh and dance the axletree— 
steel—silver—kick the traces—and know— 


ATLANTIS ROSE drums wreathe the rose, 
the star floats burning in a gulf of tears 
and sleep another thousand— 


interminably 
long since somebody’s nickel—stopped— 
playing— 


A wind worried those wicker-neat lapels, the 
swinging summer entrances to cooler hells . . . 
Outside a wharf truck nearly ran him down 
—he lunged up Bowery way while the dawn 
was putting the Statue of Liberty out—that 
torch of hers you know— 


I started walking home across the Bridge . . . 


. . . . . 


Blithe Yankee vanities, turreted sprites, winged 
British repartees, skil- 
ful savage sea-girls 
that bloomed in the spring—Heave, weave 
those bright designs the trade winds drive . . . 


Sweet opium and tea, Yo-ho! 
Pennies for porpoises that bank the keel! 
Fins whip the breeze around Japan! 


Bright skysails ticketing the Line, wink round the Horn 
to Frisco, Melbourne . . . 
Pennants, parabolas— 
clipper dreams indelible and ranging, 
baronial white on lucky blue! 


Perennial-Cutty-trophied-Sark! 


Thermopylae, Black Prince, Flying Cloud through Sunda 
—scarfed of foam, their bellies veered green esplanades, 
locked in wind-humors, ran their eastings down; 


at Java Head freshened the nip 
(sweet opium and tea!) 
and turned and left us on the lee . . . 


Buntlines tusseling (91 days, 20 hours and anchored!) 
Rainbow, Leander 


(last trip a tragedy)—where can you be 
Nimbus? and you rivals two— 


a long tack keeping— 
Taeping? 
Ariel?
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