The Labyrinth

The Labyrinth

The Labyrinth

The Labyrinth


The Labyrinth, Charles Edward. Eaton's eighteenth collection of poetry, explores the maze of the mind. It proceeds from turn to turn through the many fascinating ways emotions and thoughts interact - the gropings, the shiftings, the grasping of the real and the reaching toward the insubstantial, for a free, fathoming process with overtones of underground American life, and some conviction of light at the end of the tunnel.


One keeps thinking of the overlooked and deep—
Cities not yet discovered, races never heard of,
Great causes, war, peace, ideologies gone to sleep.

A subway train with more passengers than it can hold
May be rumbling over graves, likewise packed,
Sunken pools, baths, mosaic floors inlaid with gold.

You walk at midnight on a lonely street,
The bars almost closed, the shades in the brothels drawn,
And think of suppurations, the number of ghosts that you could

A public drinking fountain poses as a little spout
Where thirsty gladiators drank, the concubines cooled their lips—
Years from now, will that telephone booth, funereal, be something
to be talked about?

The pressing up and up forever, the pressing down of years—
My body feels compact, set in place, volcanic:
There must be urns and urns below solidified with tears.

Therefore, the beauty of the mobile, the way the hand, the foot can
A lady of the night, the last to leave the bar, knows vice but not the
How fabulous she is, drawing on a silken glove.

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