So this is kind of cool. I have been enter­ing my books into Sente, a really fine bib­li­og­ra­phy soft­ware pack­age if you’re on a Mac, and I came across these two books of poetry that I took from my grandmother’s library, Cups of Illu­sion and The Upward Pass, both by Henry Bel­la­mann, best known for the novel King’s Row, which he pub­lished in 1940 and which was made into a movie in 1942. Any­way, what drew my atten­tion was the fact that Bel­la­mann inscribed the books of poetry to my grand­mother, call­ing her his “dear lit­tle friend” in Cups of Illu­sion and “good friend” in The Upward Pass. My grand­mother once hinted to me that there was a story from the time she was a girl about her and a writer – though she never actu­ally told me the story; she tended to be very secre­tive about her past – and now, of course, I am won­der­ing what that story might be. In 1928, the year Bel­la­mann inscribed The Upward Pass, he also pub­lished Crescendo, about a man in love with two women. I some­how doubt that was the story my grand­mother never told me, that she was one of the women in the novel, but it is fun to think about.

Not much else to say about this. Just that I think it’s kind of cool. Here is a poem from Cups of Illu­sion that I opened to at random:

August Gar­dens

Falling petals and dusty leaves
And droop­ing flower heads
Beneath unpity­ing skies
Unpromis­ing of cloud or change–
Yet some faint life still moves
In your pale veins;
Some dumb, unknow­ing courage
Meets each day’s mock­ing sun.

How you keep faith with wind and rain!

I watch you in your silence,
Touch your curled ten­drils,
While my eyes
Search Heaven for promise
Or for change.

Can you know in your dim nerves
The touch of one who waits like you
And still keeps faith with God
As you keep faith with wind and rain?

And here is one from The Upward Pass:

The Gulf Stream

They say a tropic river threads the seas
Bear­ing the strangest things to north­ern lands:
Ver­mil­ion fish, like flow­ers, with sil­ver bands,
And bronze sea­weed from scar­let coral keys.
Green birds that mock the moon from tall palm trees
Where ghost-gray mon­keys hang by cun­ning hands,
Fol­low the thin­ning blue to north­ern sands,
And there among the black pines scream and freeze.

The while this ardent cur­rent chills and fades,
Splen­dors of ice drift slowly south, each one
A frozen torch of bore­alic fire,
Each one a spec­tral ship with rain­bow sails,
Sink­ing and fad­ing as it nears the sun
In this relent­less river of desire.