Two coffees in the Español Conrad (Potter) Aiken (1889-1978) Two coffees in the Español, the last Bright drops of golden Barsac in a goblet, Fig paste and candied nuts… Hardy is dead, And James and Conrad dead, and Shakspere dead ,And old Moore ripens for an obscene grave, And Yeats for an arid one; and I, and you -- What winding sheet for us, what boards and bricks, What mummeries, candles, prayers and pious frauds? You shall be lapped in Syrian scarlet, woman, And wear your pearls, and your bright bracelets, too, Your agate ring, and round your neck shall hang Your dark blue lapis with its specks of gold. And I, beside you -- ah! But will that be? For there are dark streams in this dark world, lady, Gulf Streams and Arctic currrents of the soul; And I may be, before our consummation Beds us together, cheek by jowl, in earth, Swept to another shore, where my white bones Wil lie unhonored, or defiled by gulls. What dignity can death bestow on us, Who kiss beneath a streetlamp, or hold hands Half hidden in a taxi, or replete With coffee, figs and Barsac make our way To a dark bedroom in a wormworn house? The aspidistra guards the door; we enter, Per aspidistra-then-ad astra-is it?- And lock ourselves securely in our gloom And loose ourselves from terror...Here's my hand, The white scar on my thumb, and here's my mouth To stop your murmur; speechless let us lie, And think of Hardy, Shakspere, Yeats and James; Comfort our panic hearts with magic names; Stare at the ceiling, where the taxi lamps Make ghots of light; and see, beyond this bed, That other bed in which we will not move; And, whether joined or separate, will not love. (…) xoxo kiko.
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