Classic Poem

The Turkey-buzzard was chatting with the Condor
High up in the White Cordillera.
“Surely our friend the fox is mad,” said he.
“He chases birds no more and his tail trails languidly
Behind him in the dust.
Why, he got it full of cactus-spines one day,
Pawing over a plant that stood in his way.
All the bees are buzzing about it.
Consider a fox who passes by the great hives of sharp, black honey
And looks at them no more than a heron would.”
“Odd,” said the Condor. “Remarkably peculiar.”
And he flapped his wings and flew away to the porcelain peaks of the distant Sierra.
So the Turkey-buzzard thought no more of the matter,
But busied himself with the carcass of a dead llama.

And the sun boomed onward over the ice-peaks;
Hot—Hot—Hotter!
And the sun dropped behind the snow-peaks,
And the cool of shadow was so delicious that all the squirrels and rabbits and peccaries and lizards
Flirted their tails;
And the flamingoes in Lake Titicaca puffed out their gizzards,
And waded into the pink water reflected from the carmine-tinted mountain summits;
And the parrots chattered and flashed in the mimosas;
And the eagles dove like plummets
Upon the unfortunate alpacas.
The animals were enjoying themselves in the rose-red light that lingers
Flung from the blood-orchid tips of the mountains
Before the night mists slide over the foothills.
Ah! But you could see them in the valleys,
Floating and circling like dead men's fingers
Combing living hair.

In a place of bright quartz rocks,
Sits a small red fox.
He is half in the shade of a cactus-bush.
The birds still fly, but there is a hush
And a sifting of purple through the air:
Blue dims rose,
The evening is fair.
Why is the red fox waiting there,
With his sniffing nose,
And his stiffened pose,
And his narrow eyelids which never close?
“Fox—fox—
Against the rocks.
Are you rooted there till the equinox?”
So the alcamarines flocking home in the afterglow
Mock the poor fox, but he doesn't seem to know.
He sits on his haunches, staring high
Into the soft, fruit-green evening sky.

A yellow rose blooms in the glow,
Thin fox frosted by silver snow,
Mica-crystals flecking over indigo.
And a cactus-tree
Grating its thorn-leaves huskily.
Moan of wind and the crackles of an empty place
At the coming of night.
The fox is alone.
Then in the far green heavens the lady rises, tall and white.
August and dazzling
In the drooping light,
She shimmers, jubilantly bright.
Breasts and thighs tuned to liquid air,
Loveliness set naked in a firmament.
He sees the slim, smooth arms,
And the virgin waist bending with delicate movement.
Her body sways as a flower stem
Caught in a gust;
And her hair is thrust
Towards him, he can see the gem
Which binds it loosely. His eyes are greedy
Of the curving undulations and straight fall
Following down from head to foot, and all
Cool and unclouded, touching him almost.
With hot tongue he pants upon the splendour
Of this marble beauty, imperious and unashamed
In her extreme of excellence.
Then he weeps,
Weeps in little yelping barks for the cold beautiful body
Of the inaccessible moon.
The villagers wake in a startled fright
And tell each other: “A fox bays the moon to-night.”

The moon lives in Cuzco—
It was the Partridge who told him so—
In a temple builded of jointured stone
On an emerald-studded, silver throne.
So the fox set out for Cuzco with his tail held high to keep it out of the dust.

Tramp! Tramp! Tramp!
What is that noise approaching him?
Quick, behind a stone,
And he watches them come,
The soldiers of the great Inca.
Copper spear-heads running like a river of gold along the road.
Helmets of tiger-skins, coats of glittering feathers,
A ripple of colours from one edge of the way to the other.
Feet of men cadenced to the swing of weapons.
So many bows, and arrows, and slings, and darts, and lances,
A twinkling rhythm of reflections to which the army advances,
And a rainbow banner flickering colours to the slipping of the wind.
They pass as water passes and the fox is left behind.
“Those men come from Cuzco,” thought the fox,
And his heart was like lead in his stomach for wondering if they knew the moon.
Then he trotted on again with his tail held high to keep it out of the dust.

Pat! Pat! Pat!
What is that sound behind him?
He leaps into a bush of tufted acacia just in time.
It is a post-runner, doing his stint of five miles,
Carrying merchandise from the coast.
And the fox's mouth waters as he smells fish:
Bobos, shads, sardines,
All fading in a little osier basket,
Faint colours whispering the hues of the rainbow flag.
But the runner must not lag,
These fish are for the Inca's table.
A flash of feet against the heart-shaped flowers of the yolosuchil
And the jarred leaves settle and are still.
The fox creeps out and resumes his journey, with his tail held high to keep it out of the dust.

Over bush and bramble and prick and thorn
Goes the fox, till his feet are torn,
And his eyes are weary with keeping the trail
Through ashen wind and clattering hail,
With the hot, round sun lying flat on his head,
And morning crushing its weight of lead
On scores of trumpet-vines tangled and dead.
Across swung bridges of plaited reeds
In a whorl of foaming, bursting beads
Of river mist, where a cañon makes a fall
Of thousands of feet in a sheer rock wall.
Pomegranates toss him scarlet petals,
The little covetous claws of nettles
Catch at his fur, and a sudden gloom
Blocks his path on a drip of bloom.
Over prick and thorn and bush and bramble;
Up pointed boulders with a slip and scramble,
Past geese with flattened, blue-green wings
Pulling the ichu grass which springs
In narrow fissures where nothing else clings;
Through terraced fields of bright-tongued maize
Licking the hills to a golden blaze;
Under clustered bananas and scented oaks;
Across dry, high plains where the yucca chokes.
Dawns explode in bleeding lights
On the snow-still uplands of ghastly heights
Where long-dead bodies stare through their hair
Crooking their brittle legs and bare
Ice-tortured arms, and the sun at noon
Is a glassy shell of dull maroon.
Only at night he watches the moon
Stepping along the smooth, pale sky
In a silver florescence. By and by
The red fox reaches the gates of Cuzco,
But his tail is very much bedraggled for he can no longer hold it up out of the dust.

Morning playing dimly in the passion-vines
Hanging over the gates of Cuzco.
Morning picking out a purple flower—
Another—another—
Cascading down the walls of Cuzco.
Scarlet-flashing, uprose the sun
With one deep bell-note of a copper-crashed gong.
Glory of rose-mist over the Sierra,
Glory of crimson on the tinted turrets
Of the wide old fort under the high cliff.
Glory of vermilion dripping from the windows,
Glory of saffron streaking all the shadows,
House fronts glaring in fresh young light,
Gold over Cuzco!
Gold!
Gold!
In an orchid flow,
Where the Temple of Pachacamac rose like a bell
Shining on the city,
With the clear sweet swell of an open sunrise gong.
White and carnation,
White and carnation,
The sun's great gnomon,
Measuring its shadow on the long sharp gold polished grass.
Who pass here
In an early year?
Lightning and Thunder,
Servants of the Sun.
Lord of the rainbow's white and purple,
Blue and carnation,
All awhirl to a curl of gold.
He who comes from the land of monkeys,
He who comes from the flying-fishes playing games with rainbow dolphins,
Pause—
Here before the gates of gold,
Chamfered crown about the Temple,
Sparkling points and twisted spirals,
All of Gold.
Lemon-tinted Gold,
Red-washed fire Gold,
Gold, the planking,
Gold, the roof-tree,
Gold the burnished doors and porches,
And the chairs of the dead Incas:
One long row of stately bodies
Sitting dead in all the dazzle
Glittering with bright green emeralds.
White-haired Incas,
Hoary Incas,
Black and shiny-haired young Incas,
All dead Incas;
With their hands crossed on their breasts
And their eyes cast down, they wait there.
Terrible and full-fleshed Incas.
Blaze of fire, burning, glaring,
Bright, too bright!
Ah-h-h!
The Sun!
Up through the wide-open Eastern portal.
Broken, sharpened on a thousand plates of gold,
It falls,
Splintered into prisms on the rainbow walls.
The Sun steps into his house.
Hush! It is the PRESENCE!

Face of Pachacamac,
Wreathed in burnished flames of swift fire.
Then on the wind of a thousand voices rises the hymn:
“Pachacamac
World's Creator,
Mountain-mover,
Heaven-dwelling.
We beseech thee
Send thy showers,
Warm our meadows,
Bless the seed-ears.
Man and woman,
Beast and lizard,
Feathered people,
Whales and fishes,
All implore thee,
Clement God-head,
To make fruitful
These thy creatures.
String their sinews
Ripe for power,
Quicken wombs and
Eggs and rootlets.
Be the Father,
The Begetter.
Pour upon us,
Lord of all things,
Of thy bounty,
Of thy fulness.
So we praise thee,
Swelling Apple,
Gourd of Promise,
Mighty Melon,
Seed-encaser,
Sun and Spirit,
Lord of Morning,
Blood of Mercy,
Pachacamac!”

And the great tide of men's voices echoed and curved upon the plates of gold
Lining the Temple
So that it became a wide horn of melody,
And out of it burst the hymn like a red-streaked lily thundering to the morning.
Men's voices singing the hymn of ripening seed,
Men's voices raised in a phallic chorus to the rising sun . . .
Virgin of the sun,
Pale Virgin,
Through the twisting vine-leaves it comes to you broken and shivering.
What are you, Virgin?
And who is this all-wise God
That shuts you in a hall of stone?
Cleft asunder,
A white pomegranate with no seeds,
A peascod dropped on a foot-path before its peas are blown.
Pale Virgin, go about your baking,
For the shadows shorten and at noon the oven will be heated.

Tired little fox outside the fence,
Lie down in the shade of the wall,
For indeed the sun has done you an injury.

Now the East wind, called Brisa, blew against the clouds;
And the sun rushed up the sky;
And at noon the shadow of the great gnomon was not,
No single dark patch lay anywhere about its foot,
For the God sat with all his light upon the column.
The fox awoke, and sought shelter from the heat.
Creeping, he came to a garden of five fountains,
Set in green plots, and plots of silver.
For there he saw, mixed, the fruits of the sun:
Apples, quinces, loquats, and chirimoyas,
All just after flowering with their fruit-balls perfectly formed but each smaller than a pepper-grain,
And the fruits of man:
Oranges, melons, cocoanuts and bread-fruit,
Fashioned of gold and silver,
Amazing with brightness.
Indian corn sprouted from the earth on thin stalks of gold
Which rattled against one another with a sweet clashing,
The golden ears escaping smartly out of broad recurved leaves of silver,
And silver tassels floated in a twinkle of whiteness from their glittering tops.
Golden snails clung to silver palm-branches,
Turquoise butterflies flew hither and thither
And one alone remained poised; it was of polished stone.
The fox gaped for wonder and his tail lay prone on a silver lizard,
But this he never noticed.
Then across the sounds of leaves blowing
And metals tapping,
Came music;
A voice singing in a minor key,
Throaty and uncertain as a new-cut reed.
“Mama Quilla,” it sang.
“Mother Moon,
Through the shell of heaven gliding.
Moon of many stars and brothers,
Mistress of the bright-haired rainbow,
Wife and sister of the Sun-god,
Virgin moon who bore him children,
If you die then do we perish.
Mama Quilla,
I, a Virgin,
Crave a blessing,
Ask a guerdon.
O glorious, chaste, and immaculate moon,
Preserve me to my vows.
But, I implore thee,
Take from me, therefore, this my longing,
Let the Spring deal with me gently,
Still my spirit.
Or, devout and pitying mother,
Give me thunder,
Give me lightning,
Break me on a green-stone anvil,
So the flower of my body
Blow to loveliness a moment.
I am past my holding, Mama Quilla,
In the night I smell the strong-scented blossoms of the daturas,
And my heart snares me in its loneliness.”

So the fox crept up to the door where the Virgin of the Sun sat spinning.
“Can you tell me, Lady,” said he, making a fine bow,
“If the moon lives here in Cuzco?”
Then the Virgin was afraid,
For she did not know that foxes spoke.
“Who are you,” she demanded,
“And whence do you come?”
“I am a fox of the Western Country,
And I come from the water-passage of Lake Titicaca.
I love the moon,
I desire her more than the monkeys of the Eastern forests
Desire dates,
More than your kinsmen, the Incas,
Desire the land of the Machigangas.
She is more beautiful to me than red pepper-pods
To the shepherds who walk the mountains with their llamas.
I prize her more greatly than do the Aquarimas the shrunken skulls of their enemies.
She is a poison-tree of many branches:
With one, she brushes the waves of the ocean
So that all the shores are overflown with the sea at Spring tides;
And, with another, she tickles the nose of a tapir
Asleep in a grove of vanilla-trees
On the banks of the Amazon;
And I have been blinded by the sweeping of a third
Above the snow-cornice on Mount Vilcanota.
Oh, she has many branches
All dripping with silver-white poison,
And I have come here to drink this poison and die.”
“But you cannot possess the moon;
It is sacrilege,” cried the Virgin,
And her hands trembled so that the distaff fell to the ground.
“And it is sacrilege for a Virgin of the Sun to sing of the labours of women,” said the fox.
Then the fox told of his watching, night and night, under the cactus-bush,
Of his great pains and hungering,
And the Virgin listened in a tiptoe of attention,
While the ruby humming-birds splashed fire across the silver ripple of the garden,
And the fountains sprang and recoiled,
And the Sun sank behind the mountains of the sea.

Hush!
Hush!
In the House of Acllahua.
The Mamacunas sleep,
The Virgins lie enmeshed in sleep.
Sleep folded on the House of Acllahua,
While the Sun, their master,
Dries the ocean with his swimming.
West to East, all night he swims,
And they in the House of Acllahua sleep.
Only she is waiting, fearing;
Now more gently, gently, gliding,
Through the fluttering silver flowers.
And the fox is waiting,
Sitting under a tamarisk-tree
With his hot tongue hanging out of his mouth.
Through the thin cloud of tamarisk-leaves
Falls a tempered moonlight,
A feathered, partial moonlight,
A moonlight growing every moment stronger,
A shadow growing every minute blacker.
The Virgin and the fox under the black feathers of the tamarisk-tree,
While the moon walks with a stately slowness
Down the long, quiet terraces of the sky.

Hush!
Hush!
The garden burns with cold, green fire,
A bat spots black on a gold sweet-briar,
A polished rose on a stem of wire
Sweeps and bends, a blue flung ball
Palpitating,
Undulating,
All the trees and plants girating,
All the metals quivering to song
And the great palmettos beating gongs.
The low, slow notes of the water-reeds
Underscore the glass-sweet beads
Of the little clapping melon seeds.
Gold and silver strings of a lyre
Plucked by the wind, high pitched and higher,
And the silver moans with a tone of its own
Fragile as an ixia newly blown.
All the garden sways to a noise
Of humming metal in equipoise.
Stately dates sweep a merry-go-round,
The fountains spring in a sparkle of sound.
The moonlight falls in a heap on the ground.
And there is Light!
Light is a crowned effulgence
Thrown up from the flowers and trees,
Delicate, pearled light, barred by beautiful shadows,
Bloomed light, plunging upon the silver-roofed Temple.
Open, Open,
Door of the Temple of the Moon.
Come forth, dead mothers of dead Incas.
Slow procession of the dead
Filing out of the Temple.
Mama Vello, mother of Huayna Capac,
Mama Runtu,
Mama Ocllo.
Feathered mantles brush the golden gravel,
Theirs hands are crossed on their breasts,
They are powdered with turquoises and raw-cut emeralds.
Slowly the Inca mothers form a ring,
They hold a golden chain
Long and broad