Howard Nemerov - The Collected Poems of Howard Nemerov

The poems in this volume have appeared in the following earlier collections: The Image and the Law, copyright 1947 by Henry Holt and Company, Inc.; Guide to the Ruins, Random House, 1950, copyright 1947, 1948, 1949, 1950 by Howard Nemerov; The Salt Garden, Little, Brown and Company and the Atlantic Monthly Press, 1955, copyright 1950, 1951, 1952, 1953, 1954, 1955 by Howard Nemerov; and Mirrors & Windows: Poems, 1958 by Howard Nemerov; New & Selected Poems, 1960 by Howard Nemerov; The Next Room of the Dream, 1962 by Howard Nemerov; The Blue Swallows, 1967 by Howard Nemerov; Gnomes & Occasions, 1973 by Howard Nemerov; The Western Approaches: Poems 197375, 1975 by Howard Nemerov, all by the University of Chicago Press The University of Chicago Press, Chicago 60637 The University of Chicago Press, Ltd., London 1977 by Howard Nemerov All rights reserved. Published 1977 Paperback edition 1981 Printed in the United States of America 05 04 03 02 01 00 99 98 97 96 6 7 8 9 10 ISBN 978-0-226-22807-5 (e-book) Library of Congress Cataloging in Publication Data Nemerov, Howard. The collected poems of Howard Nemerov. Includes index. PS3527.E5A17 1977 811'.5'4 77-544 ISBN 0-226-57259-5-paper by Scott C. Dine Courtesy of St.

Louis Post-Dispatch The paper used in this publication meets the minimum requirements of the American National Standard for Information SciencesPermanence of Paper for Printed Library Materials, ANSI Z39.481984. THE COLLECTED POEMS OF HOWARD NEMEROV THE UNIVERSITY OF CHICAGO PRESS
CHICAGO & LONDON Contents THE IMAGE AND THE LAW (1947)For John Pauker and W. R. Johnson EUROPE Saint and demon blindly stare From the risen stone; Brought to a common character Neither can stand alone. Saint and demon both look down Upon the public square: Iubilate, says the one, The other says despair. The people knit Assyrian brows Like statues on the rack; They all have eaten up their cows And drink their coffee black.

Nothing in Heaven is of stone And nothing dusts away. Of the blood of redemption The angels drink alway. No stony powder scores their throats Who have this saving cup, But saints and beasts are beams and motes To silt our voices up. Else should we Alleluia sing Across the withered gut, As fiddles over hollows sing To make the air sound out. New eucharists we must call down To fill our empty rooms: New heroes stagger into town Under their heavy tombs.