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Prothalamion Analysis



Author: poem of Delmore Schwartz Type: poem Views: 1

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        "little soul, little flirting,

          little perverse one

            where are you off to now?

        little wan one, firm one

          little exposed one...

            and never make fun of me again."





Now I must betray myself.

The feast of bondage and unity is near,

And none engaged in that great piety

When each bows to the other, kneels, and takes

Hand in hand, glance and glance, care and care,

None may wear masks or enigmatic clothes,

For weakness blinds the wounded face enough.

In sense, see my shocking nakedness.



I gave a girl an apple when five years old,

Saying, Will you be sorry when I am gone?

Ravenous for such courtesies, my name

Is fed like a raving fire, insatiate still.

But do not be afraid.

For I forget myself. I do indeed

Before each genuine beauty, and I will

Forget myself before your unknown heart.



I will forget the speech my mother made

In a restaurant, trapping my father there

At dinner with his whore. Her spoken rage

Struck down the child of seven years

With shame for all three, with pity for

The helpless harried waiter, with anger for

The diners gazing, avid, and contempt

And great disgust for every human being.

I will remember this. My mother's rhetoric

Has charmed my various tongue, but now I know

Love's metric seeks a rhyme more pure and sure.



For thus it is that I betray myself,

Passing the terror of childhood at second hand

Through nervous, learned fingertips.

At thirteen when a little girl died,

I walked for three weeks neither alive nor dead,

And could not understand and still cannot

The adult blind to the nearness of the dead,

Or carefully ignorant of their own death.

--This sense could shadow all the time's curving fruits,

But we will taste of them the whole night long,

Forgetting no twelfth night, no fete of June,

But in the daylight knowing our nothingness.



Let Freud and Marx be wedding guests indeed!

Let them mark out masks that face us there,

For of all anguish, weakness, loss and failure,

No form is cruel as self-deception, none

Shows day-by-day a bad dream long lived

And unbroken like the lies

We tell each other because we are rich or poor.

Though from the general guilt not free

We can keep honor by being poor.



The waste, the evil, the abomination

Is interrupted. the perfect stars persist

Small in the guilty night,

        and Mozart shows

The irreducible incorruptible good

Risen past birth and death, though he is dead.

Hope, like a face reflected on the windowpane,

Remote and dim, fosters a myth or dream,

And in that dream, I speak, I summon all

Who are our friends somehow and thus I say:



"Bid the jewellers come with monocles,

Exclaiming, Pure! Intrinsic! Final!

Summon the children eating ice cream

To speak the chill thrill of immediacy.

Call for the acrobats who tumble

The ecstasy of the somersault.

Bid the self-sufficient stars be piercing

In the sublime and inexhaustible blue.



"Bring a mathematician, there is much to count,

The unending continuum of my attention:

Infinity will hurry his multiplied voice!

Bring the poised impeccable diver,

Summon the skater, precise in figure,

He knows the peril of circumstance,

The risk of movement and the hard ground.

Summon the florist! And the tobacconist!

All who have known a plant-like beauty:

Summon the charming bird for ignorant song.



"You, Athena, with your tired beauty,

Will you give me away? For you must come

In a bathing suit with that white owl

Whom, as I walk, I will hold in my hand.

You too, Crusoe, to utter the emotion

Of finding Friday, no longer alone;

You too, Chaplin, muse of the curbstone,

Mummer of hope, you understand!"



But this is fantastic and pitiful,

And no one comes, none will, we are alone,

And what is possible is my own voice,

Speaking its wish, despite its lasting fear;

Speaking of its hope, its promise and its fear,

The voice drunk with itself and rapt in fear,

Exaggeration, braggadocio,

Rhetoric and hope, and always fear:



"For fifty-six or for a thousand years,

I will live with you and be your friend,

And what your body and what your spirit bears

I will like my own body cure and tend.

But you are heavy and my body's weight

Is great and heavy: when I carry you

I lift upon my back time like a fate

Near as my heart, dark when I marry you.

"The voice's promise is easy, and hope

Is drunk, and wanton, and unwilled;

In time's quicksilver, where our desires grope,

The dream is warped or monstrously fulfilled,

In this sense, listen, listen, and draw near:

Love is inexhaustible and full of fear."



This life is endless and my eyes are tired,

So that, again and again, I touch a chair,

Or go to the window, press my face

Against it, hoping with substantial touch,

Colorful sight, or turning things to gain once more

The look of actuality, the certainty

Of those who run down stairs and drive a car.

Then let us be each other's truth, let us

Affirm the other's self, and be

The other's audience, the other's state,

Each to the other his sonorous fame.



Now you will be afraid, when, waking up,

Before familiar morning, by my mute side

Wan and abandoned then, when, waking up,

You see the lion or lamb upon my face

Or see the daemon breathing heavily

His sense of ignorance, his wish to die,

For I am nothing because my circus self

Divides its love a million times.



I am the octopus in love with God,

For thus is my desire inconclusible,

Until my mind, deranged in swimming tubes,

Issues its own darkness, clutching seas

---O God of my perfect ignorance,

Bring the New Year to my only sister soon,

Take from me strength and power to bless her head,

Give her the magnitude of secular trust,

Until she turns to me in her troubled sleep,

Seeing me in my wish, free from self-wrongs.






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