“IT is dangerous to lean out of the window.”
No doubt, when meteors shoot athwart the night.
No doubt, no doubt; and yet it haunts the sight.
I read, re-read this ponderous advice
In French and English; play a game of dice
With mental clouds through cannonades of hours,
With foamless islands legioned with lush flow’rs,
Prismatic juicy glades bee-pasturing.
No doubt, when meteors shoot athwart the night.
No doubt, no doubt; and yet it haunts the sight.
I read, re-read this ponderous advice
In French and English; play a game of dice
With mental clouds through cannonades of hours,
With foamless islands legioned with lush flow’rs,
Prismatic juicy glades bee-pasturing.
“In case of danger you must pull the ring.”
A girl arranges a mellifluous grin:
Eternal teas and afternoons begin
To lurk within the forests of the mind
With vividness that cuts it like a wind.
And while my nostrils draw the vital air,
They quiver to discern the sweat of hair
In awkward crevices! Signal d’Alarme
Recalls the fact that I am safe from harm.
A girl arranges a mellifluous grin:
Eternal teas and afternoons begin
To lurk within the forests of the mind
With vividness that cuts it like a wind.
And while my nostrils draw the vital air,
They quiver to discern the sweat of hair
In awkward crevices! Signal d’Alarme
Recalls the fact that I am safe from harm.
I count, re-count each pendulum and beat.
Pardie! the train has swollen in the heat;
Freighted with smuts he heaves his metal breasts,
Nor heeds the broad and burning moon’s behests.
(The moon is lingering and luminous.
Mired in a wrinkling silk diaphanous
She floats a supple pose upon the air
And whispers invitations.)
“I don’t care!”
The train replies; although his body glows,
He is austere as tempest-sifted snows,
Pursuing moral dumb-bell exercise
To muscle-burst criterion; he defies
Flesh and its shuddering spurts of harlotry.
Pavilioned on hills of chastity,
“I do not care a damn,” the train replies.
Pardie! the train has swollen in the heat;
Freighted with smuts he heaves his metal breasts,
Nor heeds the broad and burning moon’s behests.
(The moon is lingering and luminous.
Mired in a wrinkling silk diaphanous
She floats a supple pose upon the air
And whispers invitations.)
“I don’t care!”
The train replies; although his body glows,
He is austere as tempest-sifted snows,
Pursuing moral dumb-bell exercise
To muscle-burst criterion; he defies
Flesh and its shuddering spurts of harlotry.
Pavilioned on hills of chastity,
“I do not care a damn,” the train replies.
The Prodigal Son
THE young man yawned with feigned inconsequence
Of manner; boredom exquisite; a fence
To hide the quick explosions in his soul.
He sucked at his surroundings, and the whole
Grim agony of his dull youth returned,
The blue fins of his sullen eyelids burned,
He could have mouthed a curse, an oath obscene:
For horror at the glib familiar scene
A clayey lump stuck blistered in his throat.
Chrysallic faces, garlic, myosote,
And rows of beans and artichokes, a field
Interminably patterned, jigged and reeled
Along the corridors of memory.
Of manner; boredom exquisite; a fence
To hide the quick explosions in his soul.
He sucked at his surroundings, and the whole
Grim agony of his dull youth returned,
The blue fins of his sullen eyelids burned,
He could have mouthed a curse, an oath obscene:
For horror at the glib familiar scene
A clayey lump stuck blistered in his throat.
Chrysallic faces, garlic, myosote,
And rows of beans and artichokes, a field
Interminably patterned, jigged and reeled
Along the corridors of memory.
“Is childhood happy? dismal fallacy!
And yet I am not one of those who think
That lilies smell not, orange-flowers stink.”
Here had the best hours coolly leaked away
Like driblets from a tap, a disarray
Of tumbled hispid stars; a clean dry sleep
Of stunted senses, where he could not weep
For ignorance. And ever shone the moon;
The warm sky twinkled like a chopped lagoon.
“This world is but a foggy circumstance,”
He thought, “where timid mortals must advance
To claim their rights and drain what cup of joy
It has to offer, now no longer boy
I’ll cease to play the rôle of Tantalus,
But leave this place, discharge a blunderbuss
Against my present drawling mode of life.
I’m still too young to bear the plague of wife,
And though ’tis true, when all fine things be said,
I’m welcome to a partner for my bed,
To kiss a gaping throat of flaccid silk;
I fear her plump white breasts would hold no milk
To suckle babes on, after I had done
With kissing at her nipples; one by one
Each new-born babe would wither up and die.”
And yet I am not one of those who think
That lilies smell not, orange-flowers stink.”
Here had the best hours coolly leaked away
Like driblets from a tap, a disarray
Of tumbled hispid stars; a clean dry sleep
Of stunted senses, where he could not weep
For ignorance. And ever shone the moon;
The warm sky twinkled like a chopped lagoon.
“This world is but a foggy circumstance,”
He thought, “where timid mortals must advance
To claim their rights and drain what cup of joy
It has to offer, now no longer boy
I’ll cease to play the rôle of Tantalus,
But leave this place, discharge a blunderbuss
Against my present drawling mode of life.
I’m still too young to bear the plague of wife,
And though ’tis true, when all fine things be said,
I’m welcome to a partner for my bed,
To kiss a gaping throat of flaccid silk;
I fear her plump white breasts would hold no milk
To suckle babes on, after I had done
With kissing at her nipples; one by one
Each new-born babe would wither up and die.”
He picked his teeth and fetched a windy sigh,
Informed his father of his bold resolve,
Who told him of the cost it would involve:
So, settling up accounts, he bade farewell
To all the damned of his domestic hell.
Informed his father of his bold resolve,
Who told him of the cost it would involve:
So, settling up accounts, he bade farewell
To all the damned of his domestic hell.
Oh wagon-lits and tickets bought from Cook’s,
Surpassing all the fairy-tales in books!
Warm exhalations, streets with spicy smells
And oh, the Poe-like harmonies of bells!
Venice and Ruskin and The Deadly Lamps,
The pulsing cafés and patchouli’d vamps
With sticky flowers in their copper hair,
The languid music throbbing on the air!
The Watteau fêtes galantes, the bistre-brown
Sombrero’d poets, yet without a crown
To purchase food; the graceful unwashed hands
And flung-proud gestures of these Southern lands!
The tiny shiny shoes with pointed tips
And carmine-rouged pursed petulance of lips!
But all the while the young man’s pockets burned,
And all the while he piteously yearned
For lucre; many azure nights he’d lain
With shirt-front soaked and squelching in champagne
And pleasures, money, all are volatile,
For after belching Pol-Roger the bile
Will wreak revenge.
Surpassing all the fairy-tales in books!
Warm exhalations, streets with spicy smells
And oh, the Poe-like harmonies of bells!
Venice and Ruskin and The Deadly Lamps,
The pulsing cafés and patchouli’d vamps
With sticky flowers in their copper hair,
The languid music throbbing on the air!
The Watteau fêtes galantes, the bistre-brown
Sombrero’d poets, yet without a crown
To purchase food; the graceful unwashed hands
And flung-proud gestures of these Southern lands!
The tiny shiny shoes with pointed tips
And carmine-rouged pursed petulance of lips!
But all the while the young man’s pockets burned,
And all the while he piteously yearned
For lucre; many azure nights he’d lain
With shirt-front soaked and squelching in champagne
And pleasures, money, all are volatile,
For after belching Pol-Roger the bile
Will wreak revenge.
And thus it came about
That when his full supply had given out,
The harlots would no longer share his bed;
Since he could pay no cash, they, laughing, said:
“One sucks the orange, throws away the peel.”
The young man’s vanity forbade him kneel
As penitent before his father’s glare,
Before the well-staged patronising stare
Of his familiar family—poor things—
How they would love to clip his phœnix-wings!
That when his full supply had given out,
The harlots would no longer share his bed;
Since he could pay no cash, they, laughing, said:
“One sucks the orange, throws away the peel.”
The young man’s vanity forbade him kneel
As penitent before his father’s glare,
Before the well-staged patronising stare
Of his familiar family—poor things—
How they would love to clip his phœnix-wings!
So he became a labourer and slept
In musty garrets where the grey mice crept,
With cobwebs and the gibbering of bats
And scuttling cockroaches, and lice, and rats
Who dragged their heavy bellies on the floor
Thud, thud and thud; the creaking of the door
In twilight cavernous, the broken pane
Through which the hiss and crackle of the rain
Would slant in rivulets across the planks,
The thunder tramped, the lightning played his pranks
Like a young leopard prancing from the skies
Divinely, whilst the tough wind slapped its thighs.
In musty garrets where the grey mice crept,
With cobwebs and the gibbering of bats
And scuttling cockroaches, and lice, and rats
Who dragged their heavy bellies on the floor
Thud, thud and thud; the creaking of the door
In twilight cavernous, the broken pane
Through which the hiss and crackle of the rain
Would slant in rivulets across the planks,
The thunder tramped, the lightning played his pranks
Like a young leopard prancing from the skies
Divinely, whilst the tough wind slapped its thighs.
Through dismal days he sweated at the plough.
And half a crust beneath an apple-bough
Became his nourishment, and so he thinned
In figure-line; the sweltering east wind
And thick-flamed sun had bronzed his body quite....
And often through the oozing hours of night
He’d sing a sparkling catch of better times—
No longer pedant à propos of rhymes,
And half a crust beneath an apple-bough
Became his nourishment, and so he thinned
In figure-line; the sweltering east wind
And thick-flamed sun had bronzed his body quite....
And often through the oozing hours of night
He’d sing a sparkling catch of better times—
No longer pedant à propos of rhymes,
He’d hum or whistle: “Gosh, she looks immense,
You never met a girl like sweet Hortense,”
With genuine emotion in his throat.
But soon he was reduced to pawning coat
And hat; dismissed for superflux of dreams
Or bathing on hot afternoons in streams
When there was corn to reap, or hay to store
In soporific barns; and all the more
He dreamt of silken harlots, velvet wine.
A tender farmer let him tend the swine.
You never met a girl like sweet Hortense,”
With genuine emotion in his throat.
But soon he was reduced to pawning coat
And hat; dismissed for superflux of dreams
Or bathing on hot afternoons in streams
When there was corn to reap, or hay to store
In soporific barns; and all the more
He dreamt of silken harlots, velvet wine.
A tender farmer let him tend the swine.
With weighty flanks well caked in slime, a sow
Grunted and suckled farrow, whilst a cow
Lowed like a mellow snore; a mastiff whined
To demonstrate sheer vacancy of mind.
“Shall I arise and go? ’tis not too late
To gain an entrance to my father’s gate.”
The young man shook his head and muttered “No,
Nor shall arise, nor to my father go.”
He had acquired a preference to dine
On scraps amongst the confidential swine.
Grunted and suckled farrow, whilst a cow
Lowed like a mellow snore; a mastiff whined
To demonstrate sheer vacancy of mind.
“Shall I arise and go? ’tis not too late
To gain an entrance to my father’s gate.”
The young man shook his head and muttered “No,
Nor shall arise, nor to my father go.”
He had acquired a preference to dine
On scraps amongst the confidential swine.
Ventilation
OPEN the window! now that breezes play
Over the wrinkled hills; the sweltering day
Fused by the wedge-shaped engines of the sun
With heat intensive, split as flowers spun
Of glass to myriad particles minute
With spot-like swiftness, hovers chilled and mute.
Over the wrinkled hills; the sweltering day
Fused by the wedge-shaped engines of the sun
With heat intensive, split as flowers spun
Of glass to myriad particles minute
With spot-like swiftness, hovers chilled and mute.
Now that no far voice cleaves the air or blurs,
No plash, no fall of oars, no rumour stirs,
And life itself has long outbreathed its lungs—
(Or so it seems, for no dim amorous tongues
Trouble the foliage, and the moon is full,
Unflecked by wind-froth); all seems sorrowful
With beauty exanimate, a beauty dead,
A subterranean silence where vague dread
Puckers the brooding soul until it weeps
Terrible heavy tears. The garden sleeps....
Sleeps as the desolate magnificence
Of Angkor with its grave mute eloquence
Where blistering suns, invectives of the wind
Hurl vainly; frenzied storms undisciplined
Beat, plunge inanely at the steadfast walls.
And no sad throat of nightingale enthralls
The quickly-pulsing heart with turbulent song.
No plash, no fall of oars, no rumour stirs,
And life itself has long outbreathed its lungs—
(Or so it seems, for no dim amorous tongues
Trouble the foliage, and the moon is full,
Unflecked by wind-froth); all seems sorrowful
With beauty exanimate, a beauty dead,
A subterranean silence where vague dread
Puckers the brooding soul until it weeps
Terrible heavy tears. The garden sleeps....
Sleeps as the desolate magnificence
Of Angkor with its grave mute eloquence
Where blistering suns, invectives of the wind
Hurl vainly; frenzied storms undisciplined
Beat, plunge inanely at the steadfast walls.
And no sad throat of nightingale enthralls
The quickly-pulsing heart with turbulent song.
So massive has the stillness grown, so strong
A blood-vessel would burst, a muscle snap,
A sane malt mind would rave, grow weak as pap....
Oh aching ears, have you too heard the lips
Of silence utter some apocalypse
To slake the agony of my desires,
To scatter them like ashes of the pyres
Of calcined and cremated limbs? but hark
In the faint failing distances what spark
Of flashed sound quivers? hold your breath, what flush
Of fluid moan? The sluice is opened; rush
And avalanche of panic-writhing cries.
Some soul in anguish is it? vague surmise
As of some tragedy—I shudder, shake
With fear....
It is the peacocks by the lake!
A blood-vessel would burst, a muscle snap,
A sane malt mind would rave, grow weak as pap....
Oh aching ears, have you too heard the lips
Of silence utter some apocalypse
To slake the agony of my desires,
To scatter them like ashes of the pyres
Of calcined and cremated limbs? but hark
In the faint failing distances what spark
Of flashed sound quivers? hold your breath, what flush
Of fluid moan? The sluice is opened; rush
And avalanche of panic-writhing cries.
Some soul in anguish is it? vague surmise
As of some tragedy—I shudder, shake
With fear....
It is the peacocks by the lake!
After
THE sky is very blue to-day,
And the soft turf yields
To each well-fitting shoe; so they
Bring their bananas and sandwiches
To munch on the battle-fields.
And the soft turf yields
To each well-fitting shoe; so they
Bring their bananas and sandwiches
To munch on the battle-fields.
O, why has Nature taken such a sheen,
Why does the grass grow green,
So cruelly green?
O, surely it must wither in the spate
Of clashing contumacious worlds of agony and hate!
How can the sun keep pace so? why not reel,
White steel,
Or stagger ankleted with yawning fire
Neath the tremendous byre?
But the absurd courageous clouds
Look on, look on
In bustling business crowds,
They con
A Masse-Mensch imaginary power.
They do not cower
Before the charabancs’ toot toot a toot
And men who bring their sandwiches to boot,
And break beer-bottles where men’s souls were torn
By invisible billion hands ... where agony was born.
There is a lady in an orange gown.
Why does the grass grow green,
So cruelly green?
O, surely it must wither in the spate
Of clashing contumacious worlds of agony and hate!
How can the sun keep pace so? why not reel,
White steel,
Or stagger ankleted with yawning fire
Neath the tremendous byre?
But the absurd courageous clouds
Look on, look on
In bustling business crowds,
They con
A Masse-Mensch imaginary power.
They do not cower
Before the charabancs’ toot toot a toot
And men who bring their sandwiches to boot,
And break beer-bottles where men’s souls were torn
By invisible billion hands ... where agony was born.
There is a lady in an orange gown.
(Did not those shrieks hang airily down,
Suspended for eternity to hear,
A thousand tired stars over a shattered town
Not formed enough to speak, but formed enough to shriek
And formed enough to make men fear?)
Suspended for eternity to hear,
A thousand tired stars over a shattered town
Not formed enough to speak, but formed enough to shriek
And formed enough to make men fear?)
Not so. The roses dangle deep asleep,
Men play Bo-peep
With poor worn-out banalities,
Sentimentalities,
Tepid-with-languor-lilies
And daffodillies.
We shall have each wind-melody dictated
And by Puccini orchestrated,
And from innumerable Noah’s arks
Those little gasps of men make little gasp remarks
And puff Abdullas in their elegant central parks.
Men play Bo-peep
With poor worn-out banalities,
Sentimentalities,
Tepid-with-languor-lilies
And daffodillies.
We shall have each wind-melody dictated
And by Puccini orchestrated,
And from innumerable Noah’s arks
Those little gasps of men make little gasp remarks
And puff Abdullas in their elegant central parks.
A cross ... a cross ... and row on row the same
Small cross without a name,
Each silhouette so slim
And, God, how ghastlily trim!
And down beneath the skeletons are piled.
... But now a child
Discovering some fraction of a bomb,
Adventure-wild,
Performs a jig with exquisite aplomb
Over, who knows? a corpse or mandrake root
(What matters it?) the charabancs toot-toot,
The sky’s so very blue to-day
And the soft turf yields
To each well-fitting shoe: and they
Bring their bananas and sandwiches
To munch on the battle-fields.
Small cross without a name,
Each silhouette so slim
And, God, how ghastlily trim!
And down beneath the skeletons are piled.
... But now a child
Discovering some fraction of a bomb,
Adventure-wild,
Performs a jig with exquisite aplomb
Over, who knows? a corpse or mandrake root
(What matters it?) the charabancs toot-toot,
The sky’s so very blue to-day
And the soft turf yields
To each well-fitting shoe: and they
Bring their bananas and sandwiches
To munch on the battle-fields.
Green grow the Rushes, O
AND do the rushes grow so green
Upon this chill All Hallows’ E’en
That voices as a lutany
Surge through my window-panes to die?
Upon this chill All Hallows’ E’en
That voices as a lutany
Surge through my window-panes to die?
For in this room of rot and rust
These dark red circles filled with dust,
These sodden and lead-heavy eyes
Long stunned with muted symphonies,
These dark red circles filled with dust,
These sodden and lead-heavy eyes
Long stunned with muted symphonies,
Are racked with the old hunger, hung
With memory’s hard ice-flakes, stung
By each note-star in crystal set
To glint and pierce this lazaret.
With memory’s hard ice-flakes, stung
By each note-star in crystal set
To glint and pierce this lazaret.
O, why not let me wallow, bleed,
Riot and guzzle in red greed,
And leave my doom-gripped body tossed
Into an agony of frost?
Riot and guzzle in red greed,
And leave my doom-gripped body tossed
Into an agony of frost?
Words
IN long prim rows the formal words distend,
Stuffed birds with loosely-fitting beaks, they glare
With beady eyes pathetically vague
Beneath their sober domes of dusty glass.
(Pale frigid flute-voiced children promenade
To suck the air into their fading lungs,
Native to soot: the tortoise-shell effect
Of sunsets barred by buildings smug and bare
And sleek pat streets of asphalt: gamins drab
Whose nightingales the Cockney sparrows are.
When furry frost hangs white about the chin,
These too will cough a dirge, no doubt, and die!)
O words, assert yourselves! from long prim rows
Trip out and weave new patterns with the clouds
That preen their swan-wings spread upon the air,
Then loll like tufts of lilac heavily;
Lush coolness, limpid nebulousness; where
The dove-tame zephyrs leap in shapely loops
To fill the windy trammel of a skirt,
Or must we oil you with celebral sweat?
When levers, springs and cogs are oiled you’ll come
Naked and unembarrassed by the moon.
. . . . . . . . .
The words have answered, lo, the words advance
No longer blocked in patterns, dribble out
In pleasant drops, with bird-quick flickers trip
Into a dissonance or discord: so,
Sharp darts of dappled sound to cleave the ear.
Some strut, and laughing madly, stridently,
These crack their wind-swift fingers, or like ants
Waving antennæ, struggle bravely on
Beneath their heavy burdens, one or two
Twinkle, then flutter off like hueless leaves,
Or dart and flash like wagtails on a pool,
Some fired with sulphurous glow, and some askew
Sway perilously, like a drunkard’s hat.
But what are these with puckered, pointed ears
That flit among the crowds like strips of tape?
They seem to stumble into tragedies.
“Oh, we shall twine you merry wreaths,” they say,
“Gay wreaths, festoons of entrails for your brow!”
Their eyes like little glasses of liqueur
Glitter and frighten me: within, without,
Words with hot breath hiss subtly venomous,
A million droning insects in my ears,
A million mottled thrushes in my mind.
Stuffed birds with loosely-fitting beaks, they glare
With beady eyes pathetically vague
Beneath their sober domes of dusty glass.
(Pale frigid flute-voiced children promenade
To suck the air into their fading lungs,
Native to soot: the tortoise-shell effect
Of sunsets barred by buildings smug and bare
And sleek pat streets of asphalt: gamins drab
Whose nightingales the Cockney sparrows are.
When furry frost hangs white about the chin,
These too will cough a dirge, no doubt, and die!)
O words, assert yourselves! from long prim rows
Trip out and weave new patterns with the clouds
That preen their swan-wings spread upon the air,
Then loll like tufts of lilac heavily;
Lush coolness, limpid nebulousness; where
The dove-tame zephyrs leap in shapely loops
To fill the windy trammel of a skirt,
Or must we oil you with celebral sweat?
When levers, springs and cogs are oiled you’ll come
Naked and unembarrassed by the moon.
. . . . . . . . .
The words have answered, lo, the words advance
No longer blocked in patterns, dribble out
In pleasant drops, with bird-quick flickers trip
Into a dissonance or discord: so,
Sharp darts of dappled sound to cleave the ear.
Some strut, and laughing madly, stridently,
These crack their wind-swift fingers, or like ants
Waving antennæ, struggle bravely on
Beneath their heavy burdens, one or two
Twinkle, then flutter off like hueless leaves,
Or dart and flash like wagtails on a pool,
Some fired with sulphurous glow, and some askew
Sway perilously, like a drunkard’s hat.
But what are these with puckered, pointed ears
That flit among the crowds like strips of tape?
They seem to stumble into tragedies.
“Oh, we shall twine you merry wreaths,” they say,
“Gay wreaths, festoons of entrails for your brow!”
Their eyes like little glasses of liqueur
Glitter and frighten me: within, without,
Words with hot breath hiss subtly venomous,
A million droning insects in my ears,
A million mottled thrushes in my mind.
Greenness Unsecreted
IN ombre gateways I had loitered, stopped
To speak unto my nearest brother, Toad,
Within the forest where the cobras propped
Green twists on frothy treetops, their abode:
“Toad, I salute you! in your chilly eye
I see the mignonette of modesty.”
To speak unto my nearest brother, Toad,
Within the forest where the cobras propped
Green twists on frothy treetops, their abode:
“Toad, I salute you! in your chilly eye
I see the mignonette of modesty.”
He did not answer, crouching like a sin,
Steeped in a lethargy too dull to pierce,
Centuple wisdom folded in his skin—
He stared with humble stare that was not fierce,
And yet within that stare I seemed to know
The stare that maddened Hieronymo.
Steeped in a lethargy too dull to pierce,
Centuple wisdom folded in his skin—
He stared with humble stare that was not fierce,
And yet within that stare I seemed to know
The stare that maddened Hieronymo.
I followed then a wedge of thoughtful cranes
Who fled across the silence drearily
From desolations and eternal rains
Across the frozen ridge of Rhodope,
The stars grown piteous of my misery
Dropped golden tears into the poem-sea.
Who fled across the silence drearily
From desolations and eternal rains
Across the frozen ridge of Rhodope,
The stars grown piteous of my misery
Dropped golden tears into the poem-sea.
I have since dived, bathed in the poem-sea,
In spilt genethliacs of amber wine
Mellowed to milk, like turtle-feathers free
Floating and flurry on the teasing brine,
Below, I saw those youths that died of love
And wandered with them in the myrtle grove.[A]
In spilt genethliacs of amber wine
Mellowed to milk, like turtle-feathers free
Floating and flurry on the teasing brine,
Below, I saw those youths that died of love
And wandered with them in the myrtle grove.[A]
And when I rose a slender oaten pipe
Made music in the entrails of my ears,
Rich bandaliers of fruit grown pulpy-ripe
Moistened the membranes and dissolved my fears,
I could remember at her day of birth
How Flora with her daisies strewed the earth.
Made music in the entrails of my ears,
Rich bandaliers of fruit grown pulpy-ripe
Moistened the membranes and dissolved my fears,
I could remember at her day of birth
How Flora with her daisies strewed the earth.
But man still chased his jet-black butterflies,
And looking up, as from a rippled cloud,
Shunned me with viscous terror in his eyes,
Then fell a-triply sewing at his shroud,
Lest I should mar the self-fomenting strife
And cultivated void that was his life.
And looking up, as from a rippled cloud,
Shunned me with viscous terror in his eyes,
Then fell a-triply sewing at his shroud,
Lest I should mar the self-fomenting strife
And cultivated void that was his life.
[A] These two lines are derived from Pope.
Back-Streets
INANE perspective stretched behind the street:
A wall, a yard, a wall, a yard, a wall,
Patterned interminably, patterned neat
With intervals of oblongs squat and tall.
A wall, a yard, a wall, a yard, a wall,
Patterned interminably, patterned neat
With intervals of oblongs squat and tall.
A full moon dims the stars and here and there
Glints on a bulging square of window-pane.
Soon clinging sodden moistures glut the air
And mists fall heavier than autumn rain.
Glints on a bulging square of window-pane.
Soon clinging sodden moistures glut the air
And mists fall heavier than autumn rain.
Only one room of all these rooms is lit.
Perhaps somebody watches, dreams absurd
And sentimental dreams, and from this pit
The ponderous bourdon of some heart is stirred.
Perhaps somebody watches, dreams absurd
And sentimental dreams, and from this pit
The ponderous bourdon of some heart is stirred.
Men live their packed exasperated lives,
Callous and unfamiliar, yet each knows,
In all these sordid chiaroscuro hives,
His neighbour’s pleasures and his neighbour’s woes.
Callous and unfamiliar, yet each knows,
In all these sordid chiaroscuro hives,
His neighbour’s pleasures and his neighbour’s woes.
Werther-Introspection
“Talk to me somewhat quickly,
Or my imagination will carry me
To see her in the shameful act of sin.”
Duchess of Malfi.
Or my imagination will carry me
To see her in the shameful act of sin.”
Duchess of Malfi.
THE morning drums upon the window-pane,
The evening drums upon the window-pane,
I wait and wait and fumble in my brain....
The evening drums upon the window-pane,
I wait and wait and fumble in my brain....
All night I’ve lain with soul that could not rest.
At dusk strange hands were tearing at my heart
In a prim polar silence.
At dusk strange hands were tearing at my heart
In a prim polar silence.
The stags and does may frolic in the woods
And leap beyond the stars, for aught I care,
Beyond those furbished clots of frigid light,
Abstract and sad detached identities,
Where they may anguish, fossilize or freeze.
And leap beyond the stars, for aught I care,
Beyond those furbished clots of frigid light,
Abstract and sad detached identities,
Where they may anguish, fossilize or freeze.
All night I’ve lain upon the charming rack
You manufactured: I shall not despair,
Or coax a courteous isolated tear.
But I shall hear my agonizing laughter
Echoing far from floor to trembling rafter
In brittle carillons like metal bells,
And hear my bleached emaciated yells
Burgeon in petalled peals, flamboyant, bright
As merry moons in petticoats of white
To hide their cancer and their leprosy.
You manufactured: I shall not despair,
Or coax a courteous isolated tear.
But I shall hear my agonizing laughter
Echoing far from floor to trembling rafter
In brittle carillons like metal bells,
And hear my bleached emaciated yells
Burgeon in petalled peals, flamboyant, bright
As merry moons in petticoats of white
To hide their cancer and their leprosy.
Then: “Patience, rebel, calm!” the darkness said,
“You’ll never choke time’s throat of beaten lead.”
I did not heed.... I knew that my heart bled.
“You’ll never choke time’s throat of beaten lead.”
I did not heed.... I knew that my heart bled.
On the Theme of Ophelia’s Madness
“AND will he not come again?”
Ophelia wanders out into the rain
That makes soft music on her yellow hair.
“O, shall I then surrender to despair?”
In vain she begs the strutting chanticleer
And Tullia’s intellectual marmosyte,
King Oberon a-lying on his bier
And Leda’s downy swan.
Throughout the night
She listens to the noise of dead men’s bones,
Sad subterranean murmurs drowned in sea-weed,
Slow-drifting down jade silences....
—She hopes to screw some answer from their groans!
But there’s a seal upon their lipless mouths.
Ophelia wanders out into the rain
That makes soft music on her yellow hair.
“O, shall I then surrender to despair?”
In vain she begs the strutting chanticleer
And Tullia’s intellectual marmosyte,
King Oberon a-lying on his bier
And Leda’s downy swan.
Throughout the night
She listens to the noise of dead men’s bones,
Sad subterranean murmurs drowned in sea-weed,
Slow-drifting down jade silences....
—She hopes to screw some answer from their groans!
But there’s a seal upon their lipless mouths.
“By all the moons that in the peacock’s tail
Rival the heaven’s moon,
I conjure a reply; has any seen
My lover’s sandal-shoon?
He wears a fluted cockle-hat,
A staff of briar-wood,
His hair’s coiled thick in a flaxen mat,
And like a river in flood
The crisp locks tumble on his poll.”
She cried but there came no answer at all
Save, God ha’ mercy on his soul!
Rival the heaven’s moon,
I conjure a reply; has any seen
My lover’s sandal-shoon?
He wears a fluted cockle-hat,
A staff of briar-wood,
His hair’s coiled thick in a flaxen mat,
And like a river in flood
The crisp locks tumble on his poll.”
She cried but there came no answer at all
Save, God ha’ mercy on his soul!
These Consolations
I SHALL console myself by being absurd
And sit among the rank, unwholesome dews,
And watch each whining pheasant and each bird
Guzzle the very-human bearded grain:
I shall not weep beneath the dismal yews
But to the milk-white turtles tune my pain.
And sit among the rank, unwholesome dews,
And watch each whining pheasant and each bird
Guzzle the very-human bearded grain:
I shall not weep beneath the dismal yews
But to the milk-white turtles tune my pain.
Where spiny pines diffuse a noxious shade
I’ll wage a series of intestine wars,
The listening wolves grow milder in the glade
Beneath the incense of the breathing Spring,
Whilst every shepherd polishes his sores
I’ll languish into life, and living, sing.
I’ll wage a series of intestine wars,
The listening wolves grow milder in the glade
Beneath the incense of the breathing Spring,
Whilst every shepherd polishes his sores
I’ll languish into life, and living, sing.
The women teem their babes; the sative plants
Quiver as Cynthia fills her silver horn,
The spicy forest and her sycophants,
The fiery-pointed organons of sense,
Attempt to catch the sound as it is born
And, as it dies, the hush is thick and tense.
Quiver as Cynthia fills her silver horn,
The spicy forest and her sycophants,
The fiery-pointed organons of sense,
Attempt to catch the sound as it is born
And, as it dies, the hush is thick and tense.
But even so the tensity can vex
What I had hoped had blackened into jet,
Like raven-feathers in the moon’s reflex,
The feeble eyes of our aspiring thoughts,
But even so the tensity can fret,
And I must grope in unsuspected orts....
I shall console myself with being fed
On hollow sapless tales and other slips,
And to the pallid nations of the dead
I’ll wander, and as soon as I arise
A liquid film will glaze upon my lips,
Upon my pores, impatient for the skies.
What I had hoped had blackened into jet,
Like raven-feathers in the moon’s reflex,
The feeble eyes of our aspiring thoughts,
But even so the tensity can fret,
And I must grope in unsuspected orts....
I shall console myself with being fed
On hollow sapless tales and other slips,
And to the pallid nations of the dead
I’ll wander, and as soon as I arise
A liquid film will glaze upon my lips,
Upon my pores, impatient for the skies.
In the Month of Athyr[B]
THESE ruins seem a womb of cringing air,
So thin that the ears tingle, flickering,
And every barren plant is withering,
Ready to snap, like glass, for sheer despair ...
And through the ether mountains loom like bones
So hollow you could scrape a melody
Sounding like water from them, oozily
To this sun-stricken desert-world of groans.
The light is cruel: it is hard to read
The letters on these stones, but, lo, the words:
“Lord Jesus Christ” and further “soul”; what birds
Erased the script with droppings? and what weed
Has wrested from these crevices a home?
“In month of Athyr” ... “Lucius fell asleep”....
His age is mentioned: he was young; and deep
Beneath the damaged parts, as in a foam
Of centuries I see, disfigured, “tears.”
Then “tears” again, “for us his friends who weep”....
Lucius was much belovèd, it appears.
In grey November ... Lucius fell asleep....
So thin that the ears tingle, flickering,
And every barren plant is withering,
Ready to snap, like glass, for sheer despair ...
And through the ether mountains loom like bones
So hollow you could scrape a melody
Sounding like water from them, oozily
To this sun-stricken desert-world of groans.
The light is cruel: it is hard to read
The letters on these stones, but, lo, the words:
“Lord Jesus Christ” and further “soul”; what birds
Erased the script with droppings? and what weed
Has wrested from these crevices a home?
“In month of Athyr” ... “Lucius fell asleep”....
His age is mentioned: he was young; and deep
Beneath the damaged parts, as in a foam
Of centuries I see, disfigured, “tears.”
Then “tears” again, “for us his friends who weep”....
Lucius was much belovèd, it appears.
In grey November ... Lucius fell asleep....
[B] The ancient Egyptian November (derived from a poem by C. P. Cavafy).
Discoveries
WE have discovered many things
To suit our moods, to give us wings:
More than an Aristotle-tome
In crimson splash of a fowl’s comb,
In silver-boled unleaving trees
Like organ-pipes along the breeze;
Sometimes the notes run sharp and false
When rooks and twigs join in the valse
Of smooth and swaying treetop spun
Like yarn across the copper sun....
But there are times when you would cry
To hear the trees’ low melody.
And we have watched the hemlock spray
And smelt dank wafture of decay,
The fume from tawny bellied leaves
In spirals where the autumn grieves.
With froth of flowers we have been rich—
The globuled frog-spawn on the ditch
Was mottled with our wonder; vast
Moist moans of raping bees’ repast
Have sluiced our languid afternoons
Like ripples crawling on lagoons.
But we have not discovered yet
How to erase, how to forget
Sheer vividness of solitude,
How to obliterate each mood
To dim Antarctic memories,
Merged icebergs twinkling in chopped seas.
To suit our moods, to give us wings:
More than an Aristotle-tome
In crimson splash of a fowl’s comb,
In silver-boled unleaving trees
Like organ-pipes along the breeze;
Sometimes the notes run sharp and false
When rooks and twigs join in the valse
Of smooth and swaying treetop spun
Like yarn across the copper sun....
But there are times when you would cry
To hear the trees’ low melody.
And we have watched the hemlock spray
And smelt dank wafture of decay,
The fume from tawny bellied leaves
In spirals where the autumn grieves.
With froth of flowers we have been rich—
The globuled frog-spawn on the ditch
Was mottled with our wonder; vast
Moist moans of raping bees’ repast
Have sluiced our languid afternoons
Like ripples crawling on lagoons.
But we have not discovered yet
How to erase, how to forget
Sheer vividness of solitude,
How to obliterate each mood
To dim Antarctic memories,
Merged icebergs twinkling in chopped seas.
Old Woman
GAUNT woman with pinched, palsied hands,
Cramped fingers once their nimble slaves,
Did your poor feet once print the sands
With lovely dimpled curves like waves?
Cramped fingers once their nimble slaves,
Did your poor feet once print the sands
With lovely dimpled curves like waves?
I’m told men once would march to wars,
Your name upon their lips, would kneel
Rapt by your eyes that fleered the stars,
Where passions leapt like sparks from steel.
Your name upon their lips, would kneel
Rapt by your eyes that fleered the stars,
Where passions leapt like sparks from steel.
I’m told snow hawthorn massed in bloom
Could not cool whiter than your hands,
Or candles crackling up the gloom
Of churches in chill twilit lands.
Could not cool whiter than your hands,
Or candles crackling up the gloom
Of churches in chill twilit lands.
Gaunt woman, why so tense your mouth?
Is it your blistered heart that speaks?
Did colour fluid as the South
Light those emaciated cheeks?
Is it your blistered heart that speaks?
Did colour fluid as the South
Light those emaciated cheeks?
Cold Joints
I
IN mental constipation shivering,
He went into the fields, where he could sing
To ease the sobbing of his plangent mind,
With desolate, cracked voice, for they were kind.
The sky an ashen cup of neutral air;
Black specks of surly rooks whirred cawing there
And sombre clots of writhing, stunted trees
Stretched withered fingers, creaking traceries
Of mazed arms multitudinous; their moan
A memory that he was not alone.
He went into the fields, where he could sing
To ease the sobbing of his plangent mind,
With desolate, cracked voice, for they were kind.
The sky an ashen cup of neutral air;
Black specks of surly rooks whirred cawing there
And sombre clots of writhing, stunted trees
Stretched withered fingers, creaking traceries
Of mazed arms multitudinous; their moan
A memory that he was not alone.
Upon the gravel path small frosted stars
Glittered and bleared; the rusty railing-bars
Were furred with silver lichen as the down
Bristled upon a dead man’s throat; a crown
Of Gothic spires through lustrous distance crept.
The world and all its wedge-shaped engines slept.
Glittered and bleared; the rusty railing-bars
Were furred with silver lichen as the down
Bristled upon a dead man’s throat; a crown
Of Gothic spires through lustrous distance crept.
The world and all its wedge-shaped engines slept.
Disturbed, he heard the crunch of footsteps fast
And looking up, he saw two men that passed.
“Good-morning, Mr. Gosling.” “Oh, good-day!”
“Bit nippy weather!” then strode on their way
With patch-work quilted minds and bowler hats,
With Sunday journal, gloves and yellow spats,
Into the distance ... while the echoes bear
“Bit nippy weather” drifting down the air.
And looking up, he saw two men that passed.
“Good-morning, Mr. Gosling.” “Oh, good-day!”
“Bit nippy weather!” then strode on their way
With patch-work quilted minds and bowler hats,
With Sunday journal, gloves and yellow spats,
Into the distance ... while the echoes bear
“Bit nippy weather” drifting down the air.
II
UP, silver man nid-nodding by the hearth!
The languid summer has trailed out her days....
For this night leave your bible, leave your path
Of selfish righteousness; delay your praise
Of God till He has given you a seat
Amongst the flapping angels. (Fire and sleete
And candle-light
And Christ receive thy soul.)
The languid summer has trailed out her days....
For this night leave your bible, leave your path
Of selfish righteousness; delay your praise
Of God till He has given you a seat
Amongst the flapping angels. (Fire and sleete
And candle-light
And Christ receive thy soul.)
Well, these are facts, even if impolite—
As trite and boring as the price of coal.
The lyke-wake dirge comes after; now you live—
Too old for fornication—that is true.
But you may love the slender fleeting things,
The terrible music of the slipping hours,
If sordid Life has nothing else to give.
In each clock-tick there is a something new—
Unsatiated sweet imaginings,
Pianola dreams or orchidaceous flowers!
And though you shiver in a slow decay,
You still have guts and marrow, though your limbs
Be well-nigh licked of blood, you need not stay
For ever by the fire and croon cracked hymns!
As trite and boring as the price of coal.
The lyke-wake dirge comes after; now you live—
Too old for fornication—that is true.
But you may love the slender fleeting things,
The terrible music of the slipping hours,
If sordid Life has nothing else to give.
In each clock-tick there is a something new—
Unsatiated sweet imaginings,
Pianola dreams or orchidaceous flowers!
And though you shiver in a slow decay,
You still have guts and marrow, though your limbs
Be well-nigh licked of blood, you need not stay
For ever by the fire and croon cracked hymns!
The children gloze and fleech him all in vain—
The taxi throbs outside.
“I hope the rain
Won’t spoil the fireworks.”
Granpa’s left behind
With baby and the adenoided nurse.
The maid moves in to draw the window blind.
Her lips compressed have never known a curse.
Amazed, she sees frail drops are trickling down
What she had ever held to be a mask.
Half-pitying the old exhausted man
So infantine, yet sitting all alone
As in blue forest depths a mossy stone,
Where toads crouch like the voice in gramophone,
She brings him crumpets and a cup of tea.
The taxi throbs outside.
“I hope the rain
Won’t spoil the fireworks.”
Granpa’s left behind
With baby and the adenoided nurse.
The maid moves in to draw the window blind.
Her lips compressed have never known a curse.
Amazed, she sees frail drops are trickling down
What she had ever held to be a mask.
Half-pitying the old exhausted man
So infantine, yet sitting all alone
As in blue forest depths a mossy stone,
Where toads crouch like the voice in gramophone,
She brings him crumpets and a cup of tea.
III
“HE’S got hot lips when he plays jazz.”
How trite and obvious; of course he has!
Sex blossoms on the lips as well as other parts,
If not, he is unworthy of an entrance to our hearts.
And you invite spontaneous destruction
For splitting chips which form so tiresome an obstruction
To our imaginative possibilities.
No half-dissembled grey tranquillities
Of mental judgment! We want elephants,
Tough-grained calamities, to clamber up on;
To travel petulantly bump-a-bump, to sup on
Champagne and slippery flesh of oysters,
And conversational quips and roysters
With childishly garrulous termagants.
And in their company you’ll find it pays
To polish up the petals of a phrase!
How trite and obvious; of course he has!
Sex blossoms on the lips as well as other parts,
If not, he is unworthy of an entrance to our hearts.
And you invite spontaneous destruction
For splitting chips which form so tiresome an obstruction
To our imaginative possibilities.
No half-dissembled grey tranquillities
Of mental judgment! We want elephants,
Tough-grained calamities, to clamber up on;
To travel petulantly bump-a-bump, to sup on
Champagne and slippery flesh of oysters,
And conversational quips and roysters
With childishly garrulous termagants.
And in their company you’ll find it pays
To polish up the petals of a phrase!