Black Marigolds quoted in Cannery Row
Even now 
If I see in my soul the citron-breasted fair one 
Still gold-tinted, her face like our night stars,
Drawing unto her; her body beaten about with flame,
Wounded by the flaring spear of love,
My first of all by reason of her fresh years,
Then is my heart buried alive in snow.

Even now 
If my girl with lotus eyes came to me again 
Weary with the dear weight of young love,
Again I would give her to these starved twins of arms 
And from her mouth drink down the heavy wine,
As a reeling pirate bee in fluttered ease 
Steals up the honey from the nenuphar.

Even now 
If I saw her lying all wide eyes 
And with collyrium the indent of her cheek
Lengthened to the bright ear and her pale side 
So suffering the fever of my distance,
Then would my love for her be ropes of flowers, and night 
A black-haired lover on the breasts of day.

Even now 
My eyes that hurry to see no more are painting, painting 
Faces of my lost girl. O golden rings 
That tap against cheeks of small magnolia-leaves,
O whitest so soft parchment where 
My poor divorced lips have written excellent 
Stanzas of kisses, and will write no more.

Even now 
Death sends me the flickering of powdery lids
Over wild eyes and the pity of her slim body 
All broken up with the weariness of joy;
The little red flowers of her breasts to be my comfort 
Moving above scarves, and for my sorrow
Wet crimson lips that once I marked as mine.

Even now 
They chatter her weakness through the two bazaars
Who was so strong to love me. And small men 
That buy and sell for silver being slaves
Crinkles the fat about their eyes; and yet 
No Prince of the Cities of the Sea has taken her,
Leading to his grim bed. Little lonely one,
You cling to me as a garment clings; my girl.

Even now 
I love long black eyes that caress like silk,
Ever and ever sad and laughing eyes,
Whose lids make such sweet shadow when they close 
It seems another beautiful look of hers.
I love a fresh mouth, ah, a scented mouth,
And curving hair, subtle as a smoke,
And light fingers, and laughter of green gems.

Even now 
I remember that you made answer very softly,
We being one soul, your hand on my hair,
The burning memory rounding your near lips;
I have seen the preistesses of Rati make love at moon fall 
And then in a carpeted hall with a bright gold lamp 
Lie down carelessly anywhere to sleep.


Even now 
I mind the coming and talking of wise men from towers
Where they had thought away their youth. And I, listening,
Found not the salt of the whispers of my girl,
Murmur of confused colours, as we lay near sleep;
Little wise words and little witty words,
Wanton as water, honied with eagerness.

       In the sink the high white foam cooled and ticked
       as the bubbles burst. Under the piers it was very
       high tide and the waves splashed on rocks they had
       not reached in a long time.

Even now 
I mind that I loved cypress and roses, clear,
The great blue mountains and the small grey hills,
The sounding of the sea. Upon a day 
I saw strange eyes and hands like butterflies;
For me at morning larks flew from the thyme
And children came to bathe in little streams.

        Doc closed the book. He could hear the waves beat
        under the piles and he could hear the scampering
        of white rats against the wire. He went into the
        kitchen and felt the cooling water in the sink.
        He ran hot water into it. He spoke aloud to the
        sink and the white rats, and to himself:

Even now 
I know that I have savoured the hot taste of life 
Lifting green cups and gold at the great feast.
Just for a small and a forgotten time 
I have had full in my eyes from off my girl 
The whitest pouring of eternal light ...

        He wiped his eyes on the back of his hand. And the
        white rats scampered and scrambled in their cages.
        And behind the glass the rattlesnakes lay still and
        stared into space with their dusty, frowning eyes.


                  From Cannery Row by John Steinbeck
                  Translated from the Sanskrit of Chauras
                  (Chaura-panchasika, 1st century) by
                  Powys Mathers, Love Songs of Asia, Knopf '46.