Toward the Gulf

Toward the Gulf

About this book

Excerpt: ... all I see that Trueblood's mind Runs to the under-dog, the fallen Titan The god misunderstood, the lover of man Destroyed by heaven for his love of man. In July, 1914, while in London He took me to his house to dine and showed me The verses as above. And while I read He left the room, returned, I heard him move The ash trays on the table where we sat And set some object on the table. Then As I looked up from reading I discovered A skull and bony hand upon the table. And Trueblood said: "Look at the loft brow! And what a hand was this! A right hand too. Those fingers in the flesh did miracles. And when I have my hero's skull before me, His hand that moulded peoples, I should write The drama that possesses all my thought. You'd think the spirit of the man would come And show me how to find the key that fits The story of his life, reveal its secret. I know the secrets, but I want the secret. You'd think his spirit out of gratitude Would start me off. It's something, I insist, To find a haven with a dramatist After your bones have crossed the sea, and after Passing from hand to hand they reach seclusion, And reverent housing. Dying in New York He lay for ten years in a lonely grave Somewhere along the Hudson, I believe. No grave yard in the city would receive him. Neither a banker nor a friend of banks, Nor falling in a duel to awake Indignant sorrow, space in Trinity Was not so much as offered. He was poor, And never had a tomb like Washington. Of course he wasn't Washington-but still, Study that skull a little! In ten years A mad admirer living here in England Went to America and dug him up, And brought his bones to Liverpool. Just then Our country was in turmoil over France- (The details are so rich I lose my head, And can't construct my acts.)-hell's flaming here, And we are fighting back the roaring fire That France had...

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