Songs of
Kenneth Leslie

List
Halifax Citadel
Prospect Road
Glooscap's Eye
Go, Lank Rover
John Angus
California
Cape Breton Lullaby

GREEN MOON

The moon, the maddening moon is out, 
kissing his hair, tearing my throat, 
stifling my breath is her beauty there; 
I'll shut my window to get some air, 
I'll lock my door and draw the blind 
to keep the moon-rays out of my mind. 

LET LOOSE THE CLEAR WARM LIGHT 
(to M.H.S.)

Let loose the clear warm light that lights your eyes, 
let it come quickly to mine without restraint 
or veiling over or thought of being wise 
against me, for I'm sure there is no taint 
of any wish to bind you to my side 
but a full freedom here where you may roam 
and come again and where my love stands wide 
to watch your wandering and your turning home. 

Turn to me then a moment while the air 
weeps in the dark along the cable wire, 
turn to me while the breath of your eyes and hair 
burns my parched lips to an unwise desire; 
and turn away now quickly while my head 
can still remember that wise thing I said.

PROMISE

The door we closed will open again; 
the stream we dammed will burst with rain; 
the stars shall mock this blinding dawn 
and the song we smothered sing on, sing on! 

DEAR ISLAND GIRL 

Dear Island girl, it was a doubtful door 
you stood behind, that morning, undecided 
whether to open or stay closed, not sure 
of what your hand would wish, a door divided 
a moment from itself; and in the space 
of that bewilderment I saw it plain, 
the place where beauty dwells with wordless grace 
of tears, revealing loveliness through pain. 
A very little pain, but yet enough 
to prove to me once more that paradise 
is here on earth and made of earthly stuff, 
of simple Island faith in shining eyes. 
Young tears, soon over . . . but in some September 
my heart shall heed the Island and remember. 
 

ARE YOU LESS KIND?  
(to Beth)

My eyes have seen you, I have heard you speak, 
my hand has touched your hand, and I can swear 
when one but breathes your name my limbs grow weak, 
my marrow turns to water, the fresh air 
chokes in my lungs, and in my desolate walk 
the trees crowd in and press me hard for room, 
the stars are insolent following me to mock 
my low distress, the sun eyes me like doom. 
Only the mist is kind to let me slip 
into its cool asylum, comforting 
my torn condition with its healing drip 
hiding my rawness under its soft gray wing. 
Can you who made this ravage make repair, 
or are you less kind than the misty air? 

TOUCHING THE COLD SAND  
(to M.H.S.)
 

Once, touching the cold sand, 
you must have touched his hand, 
or, in a waterfall 
heard his far call: 
for grieving pines have rest 
within your breast and cherry-blossoms find 
lost brightness in your mind. 
Not yours to choose, 
beauty you may not lose. 
Your eyes full to the brim 
gazing on him, 
heart-stricken but head-high 
you hailed him going by. 
 

MY DELIGHT AND HAPPY RUIN  
(to Beth) 

You are my delight and happy ruin, 
for every road I go gets lost and turns 
upon itself and wanders home again 
to your gray eyes where my true freedom burns. 

You are the wise disorder of my thinking, 
for every hour of plunging speculation 
must rise to breathe this one life-giving breath, 
your love that holds yet frees my adoration. 
 

MARRIAGE CONTRACT  
(to Beth) 

This is to certify that I am yours 
all yours lest there be some mistake about it, 
all ways and always; herewith let the doors 
burst open with a rhythmic stave to shout it! 
Let words be bold to take the now-or-never 
leap from the last crag that binds to earth 
and singing, fly, or falling, sing forever 
the song of ultimate gain, of ultimate dearth. 
This is to certify that you are mine, all mine; 
and only a broken reed can tell the 
deep delight that chokes upon a sign 
and hides from ring and book and brassy bell 
the secret seed of what may never die, 
immortal flower of one hard word, "Goodbye!" 

 ONE-WAY

I had a golden master key 
that turned a rusty lock for me, 
undid the hard perplexity 
that guarded at your door. 
I passed with that key's fitting grace 
the gateway of your frightened face 
and through your heart's dear hiding place 
I ventured to explore. 

But now its skill has won the day 
within your heart, there I must stay; 
my key won't work the other way; 
forever I am bound. 
And so because I made so free 
a locked-up prisoner I must be, 
and where I would be king my knee 
must humbly touch the ground. 
 

WINDWARD ROCK  
(to James Moir) 

White, tooth-marked by the gray sea wolves, you face 
their fury, break their fangs against your side, 
letting them slither from your hard embrace 
to whine their death-cry on the ebbing tide. 
You guard my cove and lure the minted moon 
within its peace-bound flood, you save my fishing, 
you let my kettle and my cradle croon, 
friending my field to harvest past all wishing. 
Two faces so you keep, one for those others, 
grim, unrelenting, one turned from the sea, 
sharing the scanty hope of earth-born brothers 
that somehow all things are as they should be. 
There blows my blessing on an outward air, 
a wild-rose petal for your granite hair! 
 

THE CANDY MAKER 
(to James Moir) 

Somebody asked me this the other day: 
who are the pure and passionate of heart? 
I said I had known one, long years ago, 
a gaunt and gray man, not a poor man either, 
a 'business man' of the old pre-war kind 
who'd built his business slowly on its worth, 
or, rather, let his worth build up his business. 
He was a manufacturer, a candy maker. 
He knew what other men had learned of sugar, 
its idiosyncrasies from cane to crystal, 
and went beyond them, like a pioneer, 
knowing no boundaries in his passionate quest 
of knowledge that was pure and diamond-sharp 
to etch in definite form his venturing taste, 
I used to love to watch his inward mind 
rove, as he slowly chewed a grain of cacao, 
to Java, Venezuela, or Ceylon, 
tasting at once its source, appraising it. 
He had a special gentle way to draw 
the easily hurt soul of the vanilla, 
to tempt the curious waywardness of creams, 
to make a caramel that would be true 
to the 'dear honey' that is in its name. 
His feet were on the ground, his head was high, 
he walked in nature's straight and narrow road. 
I never knew that purity was passion 
until I saw this gaunt and gray-beard man. 

PERSPECTIVE 

Each being persuaded of an opposite thing 
our ways perforce must separate. 
But this is plain that if we keep on walking 
our roads must surely find one road again. 
And for that future moment, 
bright meeting-time I long 
and press the faster 
that it be not too distant! 
 

Pages Crafted by Last Updated July 15, 1999