lirik lagu robert penn warren - original sin
this title is “original sin: a short story.” this story is about the personal past and the history behind the personal past, i suppose, and the problem that contemplating this personal past makes for us in our world mobility disorientation. the poisoned five~line stanza rhyming ababb, pentameter except for the last line, which runs somewhat longer. original sin: a short story
nodding, its great head rattling like a gourd
and locks like seaweed strung on the stinking stone
the nightmare stumbles past, and you have heard
it fumble your door before it whimpers and is gone:
it acts like the old hound that used to snuffle your door and moan
you thought you had lost it when you left omaha
for it seemed connected then with your grandpa, who
had a wen on his forehead and sat on the veranda
to finger the precious protuberance, as was his habit to do
which glinted in sun like rough garnet or the rich old brain bulging through
but you met it in harvard yard as the historic steeple
was confirming the midnight with its hideous racket
and you wondered how it had come, for it stood so imbecile
with empty hands, humble, and surely nothing in pocket:
riding the rods, perhaps~or grandpa’s will paid the ticket
you were almost kindly then, in your first homesickness
as it tortured its stiff face to speak, but scarcely mewed;
since then you have outlived all your homesickness
but have met it in many another distempered latitude:
oh, nothing is lost, ever lost! at last you understood
but it never came in the quantum glare of sun
to shame you before your friends, and had nothing to do
with your public experience or private reformation:
but it thought no bed too narrow~it stood with lips askew
and shook its great head sadly like the abstract jew
never met you in the lyric ~rs~nical meadows
when children call and your heart goes stone in the bosom;
at the orchard anguish never, nor ovoid horror
which is furred like a peach or avid like the delicious plum
it takes no part in your classic prudence or fondled axiom
not there when you exclaimed: “hope is betrayed by
disastrous glory of sea~capes, sun~torment of whitecaps
~there must be a new innocence for us to be stayed by.”
but there it stood, after all the timetables, all the maps
in the crepuscular clatter of always, always, or perhaps
you have moved often and rarely left an address
and hear of the deaths of friends with a sly pleasure
a sense of cleansing and hope, which blooms from distress;
but it has not died, it comes, its hand childish, unsure
clutching the bribe of chocolate or a toy you used to treasure
it tries the lock; you hear, but simply drowse:
there is nothing remarkable in that sound at the door
later you may hear it wander the dark house
like a mother who rises at night to seek a childhood picture;
or it goes to the backyard and stands like an old horse cold in the pasture
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