EMANUEL MORGAN
_Opus 1_

THEY enter with long trailing of shadowy cloth,
And each with one hand praying in the air,
And the softness of their garments is the grayness of a moth--
The lost and broken night-moth of despair.

And they keep a wounded distance
With following bare feet,
A distance Isadoran--
And the dark moons beat
Their drums.

More desolate than they are Isadora stands,
The blaze of the sun on her grief;
The stars of a willow are in both her hands,
And her heart is the shape of a leaf.

And they come to her for comfort
And her black-thrown hair
Is a harp of consolation
Singing anthems in the air.

With the dark she wrestles, daring alone,
Though their young arms would aid;
Her body wreathes and brightens, never thrown,
Unvanquished, unafraid . . .

Till light comes leaping
On little children's feet,
Comes leaping Isadoran--
And the white stars beat
Their drums.

ANNE KNISH
_Opus 195_

HER soul was freckled
Like the bald head
Of a jaundiced Jewish banker.
Her fair and featurous face
Writhed like
An albino boa-constrictor.
She thought she resembled the Mona Lisa.
This demonstrates the futility of thinking.

EMANUEL MORGAN
_Opus 6_

IF I were only dafter
I might be making hymns
To the liquor of your laughter
And the lacquer of your limbs.

But you turn across the table
A telescope of eyes.
And it lights a Russian sable
Running circles in the skies. . . .

Till I go running after,
Obeying all your whims--
For the liquor of your laughter
And the lacquer of your limbs.

EMANUEL MORGAN
_Opus 9_

WHEN frogs' legs on a plate are brought to me
As though I were divinity in France,
I feel as God would feel were He to see
Imperial Russians dance.

These people's thoughts and gestures and concerns
Move like a Russian ballet made of eggs;
A bright-smirched canvas heaven heaves and burns
Above their arms and legs.

Society hops this way and that, well-taught;
But while I watch, in cloudy state,
I feel as God would feel if he were brought
Frogs' legs on a plate.

ANNE KNISH
_Opus 187_

I DO not know very much,
But I know this--
That the storms of contempt that sweep over us,
Ready to blast any edifice before then
Rise from the fathomless maelstrom
Of contempt for ourselves.
If there be a god,
May he preserve me
From striking with the