Page 10

WAR

Beyond the deepened shadows The women softly cry - "Pro Patria!" The slim-hipped fighting men Go swinging down to die.

"BEAU"

A slim Triangular-faced whimsey Through whose blue motif Ran ragged, trailing threads Of passion Neither welcomed Nor understood.

Page 11

THE CONVENT OF THE GUNS

Our clean curved mouths are cold and dead Our polished skin is marred Our tawny thighs are thick with dirt, Dented, cut and scarred. Our day is done! But once - Our open mouths blazed death's caress Our tongues with steel were tipped! Ah! bitter spinsters were we then As we slashed and cut and ripped. Our youth was filled with lovers, All laughing, joyouts boys Who stroked our slim, proud beauty, Their latest, deadly toys. Then clean and fresh and polished We went forth with the Dead. The living, lovely, happy lads Whose last touch dyed us red. Then supplanted like all harlots By the newer, fresher one We turned to rest and quiet As our kind has always done. With a printed tag about our throats To inform our lovers' sons. We're an Ordnance Exhibition The Convent of Guns.

"Convent of the Guns" appeared in Bradley's poetry column in the University of Chicago Maroon, October 24, 1928.

He recited the poem at a Greenwich Inn recital, under the auspices of Henry Harrison.