The Project Gutenberg eBook of Provocations
Title: Provocations
Author: Sibyl Bristowe
Author of introduction, etc.: G. K. Chesterton
Release date: October 12, 2010 [eBook #33855]
Language: English
Credits: Produced by Bryan Ness, Iris Schimandle and the Online
Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This
file was produced from images generously made available
by The Internet Archive/Canadian Libraries)
PROVOCATIONS
TO THE MEMORY
OF
MY FATHER
JOHN SYER BRISTOWE, M.D., F.R.S., LL.D.
THIS LITTLE BOOK
OF VERSE
IS AFFECTIONATELY DEDICATED
PROVOCATIONS
BY
SIBYL BRISTOWE
WITH AN INTRODUCTION BY
G. K. CHESTERTON
LONDON, W.C. 1
ERSKINE MACDONALD, LTD.
All Rights Reserved.
Copyright by Erskine MacDonald, Ltd.
in the United States of America.
First published October, 1918
INTRODUCTION
The verses in this volume cover very many and various occasions; and are therefore the very contrary of what is commonly called occasional verse. The term is used with a meaning that is very mutable; or with a meaning that has been greatly distorted and degraded. Occasion should mean opportunity; and in the case of poetry it should rather mean provocation. And the trick of writing upon what are called public occasions, instead of upon what may truly be described as private provocations, has been responsible for much verse which is not only insufficient but insincere. It has produced not only many bad poems; but what is perhaps worse, many bad poems from many good poets. The sincerity of Miss Sibyl Bristowe's poetry is perhaps most clearly proved by the number of points at which it touches life; and the spontaneity, or even suddenness, with which they are touched. It is an occasional verse which arises out of real occasions, and not out of merely fictitious or even merely formal ones. Thus while the one or two poems on the great war are probably the best, they are by no means the biggest; they are not the most arresting in the sense of being the most ambitious. They are arresting because the great war really is great, and moves an imaginative spirit to great issues; it is public but it is very far from being official. The war, indeed, is necessarily more important as a private event even than as a public event. And the few but fine lines, on a brother fallen in a fight amid wild river that sundered man from man, is a model of the manner in which such mighty events take their place among the impressions of the more sincere and spontaneous type of talent. The topic takes its pre-eminence by intensity and not by space, or even in a sense by design. Indeed it is best expressed in a metaphor used by the writer herself about the topic itself; the metaphor of the colour red in its relation to other colours. Red rivets the eye, not by quantity but by quality; and in any picture or pattern a spot or streak of it will make itself the feature or the key. Miss Sibyl Bristowe's poem conceives the Creator confronted as with a broken spectrum or a gap in coloured glass; feeling the whole range of vision to be dim and impoverished and adding, by the authority of His own mysterious art, the dreadful colour of martyrdom.
Indeed the point of the comparison might very well be conveyed by the two poems about a London garden; that on the garden in peace being comparatively long, and that about the garden in war exceedingly short; short but sharply pathetic with its notion of peering and probing for the microscope flowers that must be a part of the most utilitarian vegetables. Indeed the short poems are certainly the most successful; and there is the same brevity in the last line of the poem about the tragic passage of time; "If lips of children had not told me so." The same general impression, as in the comparison already noted, is conveyed, for instance, in the fact that the poems about South Africa are private rather than public poems; are in that sense, if the phrase be properly comprehended, rather colonial than imperial. That is, they are individual glimpses of great torrid wastes, like similar individual glimpses of quiet northern woods; visions of crude and golden cities as personal as the parallel visions of normal northern cottages. Miss Sibyl Bristowe is perhaps an amateur, in the sense in which this is generally true of one who happens to be an artist in another art; but it is unfortunate that the world has so much missed the notion of that natural ardour that should belong to the word.
G. K. Chesterton.
The author has to acknowledge the courtesy of the Editors of "The Poetry Review" and "The Johannesburg Star" for permission to include poems that have appeared in their pages.
CONTENTS
My London Garden, 1914 14
My Garden, 1918 17
Over the Top! 18
To His Dear Memory 20
Sorrow 21
Alas! 23
A Sacrament 24
The Love-shed Tear 25
Madonna Granduca and Child 29
A Vision of a Day that is Past 30
Bitterness Casteth out Love 33
The Hour of Happiness 34
Thoughts 35
The Things Unsaid are the Things that Count! 36
The Song of the Long Ago 37
The Sinner's Dreaming 39
Woman 40
Christmas 41
February 42
Oh! 'Tis May 43
To the Wind 45
The Grey Wind 47
Poeta Nascitur 49
Queen Elizabeth 51
The Death of Queen Elizabeth 56
The Plea of the Antarctic 58
The Stranger in London 59
The Transvaal in June 62
Johannesburg 63
In the Land of the Silences 65
The Great War
And drew it forth
Full of strange hues forgotten, contraband
Of War and Wrath.
The quick and dead
Might knit their bleeding crosses in. And lo!
A patch of red!
My London Garden, 1914
Of bordered green
And gravel brown
In misty town,
And chimneys smoky and unclean
Sweep to the sky.—You would not care
To visit there.
And raises undisturbed its luscious green
And laughs for youth in shrill and ringing tones.
I love it that it grows up so serene,
Dauntless and bright
And laughing me to scorn,
So vivid and so slight,
Glad for the night-shed dew and smoke-bred morn.
Sleeps in the bosom of a grim old town,
I wish that you could see
Its beauty here with me;
I'd tell you many things you never knew,
For few, so few
Know the romance of such a London strip,
With ferny screen
That slants shy gleams of sunlight in between
And weeds which flourish just inside the dip,
Holding their tenure with a firm deep grip
Where prouder things all die.
Small wonder I
Tend my tall weed as tho' it were a gem,
Note every leaf, and watch the stalwart stem
Wax strong and high—
My weed plot lives in reckless luxury.
Has done its worst,
And cruel Time
And dust accursed
Have marred the innocence of each young leaf,
Or soiled the blossoms, like a wanton thief—
Masses of tulips, pink and white,
Rise from the earth in prim delight,
And iris, king of pomp and state,
In vesture fine
And purple and pale gold
Its buds unfold—
A mighty potentate,
And marshals nobly, proudly into line,
Whilst lilacs sway in wind and rushing breeze,
Bowing and nodding to some poplar trees.
You would not care
To visit there
Midst such surroundings grey.
My Garden's but an oasis of hope
Set in the frown
And dismal grandeur of a grim old town,
A semblance merely of the lawns you see;
A hint, an echo of the things that be!
But he or she would be a misanthrope
Who would not share my garden hope with me.
My Garden, 1918
All rosy pink or violet or blue
Or yellow gold, with sunflecks on the dew.
Now in their place a Summer garden towers
Of green-leaved artichokes and turnip tops,
Of peas and parsnips, sundry useful crops.
—But even vegetables must have little flowers.
Over the Top!
Read yer Bibles,—pass the rum!
Ten more minutes! Strike me dumb,
'Ow they creeps on unawares
Those blooming minutes. Nine. It's queer,
I'm sorter stunned. It ain't with fear!
Waddled round in your inside
Cold as ice-blocks, straddled wide,
Tired o' waiting.—Where's the grog?
Seven. I'll play you pitch and toss.
Six. I wins, and tails your loss.
'Fore I knowed it; only four
(Break 'em into seconds) more
'Twixt us and Eternity!
Every word I've ever said
Seems a-shouting in my head!
Fairly shook up in the sky,
Frightened by the lullaby
Rattled by the dogs of war.
Funny thing—that star all white
Saw old Blighty too, larst night!
They're only wishes sent ter God,
Bits o' plants from bloody sod
Trailing up His golden stairs.
Ninety seconds. Well, who cares!—
One. . . . . . .
. . . . . .
No pipe, no blare, no drum—
Over the Top!—to Kingdom Come
To His Dear Memory
(April 14th, 1917)
Where green birds wing, and heavy burgeoned trees
Sway in the fevered breeze,
My Brother lies.
Tore through the mountain passes, swept the plains,
O'erbrimmed with tears, o'erbrimmed with summer rains,
All wild, all desolate.
Whilst the deep Mother-breast
Of drowsy-lidded Nature, drunk with dreams,
Below Pangani, by Rufigi streams,
Took him to rest.
Where bright birds wing, and rich luxuriant trees
Sway in the fevered breeze,
My Brother lies.
His hurried grave; a cross of oak to show
The drifting winds, a Soldier sleeps below.
—Our Saviour's cross, I know,
Was wooden, too.
[A] The river Rufigi rose so high the night he died, none of his own Battalion could cross it to attend his last honours.
Sorrow
For Sorrow is dressed in grey,
And her eyes are dim
With a weary rim.
Send Sorrow away.
Maid of the sombre sway,
Breathing woe
In a murmur low,
And her lips are pale
And her body frail.
Send Sorrow away.
Foe of the dancing day.
Oh! her cheeks fall in,
And her hands are thin,
But her grip is fast
On the changeless past;
And they sere and clutch
The soul they touch.
Send Sorrow away.
For she haunts me night and day.
And Sorrow is dressed in grey,
Yes, Sorrow is dressed in grey.
And she looks so old,
So drawn, so cold—
Send Sorrow away.
Alas!
His footsteps pacing mine. I stayed the while
To wrest the luscious fruits from love and life;
He strode on pauselessly, with thin cold smile.
Stole all my roses, spread his cobwebs grey,
Wrung all my tresses in his silvering hand;
So stealthily he lured my youth away
I only learned that I was old—to-day.
Had not the lips of children told me so.
A Sacrament
"What are these crystal globes by nations shed?
Where is Thy peace, and where Thy guiding hand?
Where is Thy might, and where the love of Christ?"
"Oh son of earth, I bid thee still rejoice!
Water My harvest, sanctify My dead.
Is but the prelude to a nobler birth.
Sleep in the hope of Jesus crucified.
Veil in their depths a Mystery divine."
The inner visions of Calamity!
The Love-shed Tear
Hard and bad and proud and old!
Deep in years—for his call was late.
The Gate was shut, and he had to wait,
And he leaned awhile on his bag of gold.
Guarded close by a flaming sword!
The old man opened out his sack,
Saint Peter searched the sordid pack,
"Is this thy passport to the Lord?"
Was all therein to offer God,
He vainly sought one kindly deed,
One gentle word to those in need,
One little step in mercy trod.
"This fruitless hoard of worthless sin,
This earthly gold, which weighs like lead?
Oh, wretched man! thy soul is dead!
Thou mayst—thou canst not enter in!
Of life within thy sordid soul,
One kindling spark of Life Divine,
The flames of hell had not been thine.
Hence"—and he seal'd the Judgment scroll.
Lick'd and blazoned the depths of hell,
Mocking red in the pitchy night,
Down, ever down, from out God's sight,
Down to the damned the Miser fell.
Satan watched with his sombre eye.
The trembling Miser peered within,
He thought to find his kith and kin
Whose guilt condemned them too—to die.
Then beat his breast with wondering moan,
For lo! of all the human race
The Miser stood in hell—Alone!
For all had found some saving grace
That set them free to seek God's face
And could their vilest sins atone.
No single virtue could he plead,
Satan's own—by self decreed!
When sudden! 'neath a dastard deed,
The devil cried, "What lieth here?"
It was a single love-shed tear
Shed in an hour of direst need.
Once—when his child lay coldly dead,
Once he had prayed. No prayer is vain.
This prayer had lived to save again
And bring remission on his head.
Praised the Lord for the thing call'd love;
But Satan shrieked in frenzied ire,
"This foolish tear will quench my fire,
This man must go above—above!"
Closely guarded the jewelled door.
"I seek," he humbly sobbed, "our Lord.
I brought Thee gold—a worthless hoard—
Thou wouldst not let me in before.
A little thing, 'tis very small—
I pray Thee take it not amiss,
My gold is in the dark abyss,
This little tear, oh Lord, is all!"
"That shows the sap of life within
A living Soul, with chance to win
A place with God, immune from sin!
Methought the fount of Life had dried"
(He flung the Gates of Heaven wide),
"Go, living Soul, and enter in!"
Through deep remorse and pains austere
He washed his soul from sin's dark trace,
Then in his heart-felt awe and fear
He lowly sought his Saviour's face,
Saved to life through a love-shed tear!
Madonna Granduca and Child
Sheltered there on Mary's breast,
All Thy child-like purity
Lightens life's obscurity,
So I thank Thee
For that ray of light confessed.
Sweet in woman's modesty;
But to such an one as me
I would choose to kneel to Thee,
To Thy young simplicity,
To Thy full divinity,
Little Christ.
Give me joyfulness serene,
Steep me for futurity
In Thy white-souled purity.
For Thine innocence sufficed,
Little Christ, little Christ,
Vagrants like myself to bless,
So I thank Thee
For Thy perfect holiness,
Little Christ.
A Vision of a Day that is Past
That shadowed the valley that seemed so still,
And the blackbird whistled his love notes shrill.
The bodies should rise from her graveyard pen
Where the high grass covered her poor dead men.
Gold that the buttercups had sold
To the nibbling sheep of the red ring-fold.
As the sun sank low in the tender west,
And the earth flowers slept on their mother's breast.
Where the blackbird whistled his love-notes shrill
I gazed, and all against my will
I saw a vision beneath the hill.
And I stood in the glare of a burning day
Whilst the church-bells clamoured a call to pray.
That brother called Death; and they seared the land
With their fiery breath and the murder brand.
Naught was sacred, the living or dead,
The old, old man, or the girl just wed.
Pillaged and sacked from night till morn,
And spitted the babe that was newly born.
They swarmed the hill, debauched with greed—
Some slunk behind, their lust to feed.
Soaking the fields in a scarlet flood,
A woman prayed with her child for food.
With a fœtid jest at her hapless fast,
And some men cut her down at last.
And they left her to rot in her misery,
Naked and scorned for the world to see.
Save only the comb in her coal-black hair,
And they strangled the baby, helpless there.
In a sheet of earth in the dewy ground,
They looted them both for the spoil they found.
And churned the dust, till it rose a cloud
like a pearly mist, to form a shroud.
And covered the mother and babe and all,
Till they lay at peace in a soft green pall.
Those bodies will rise from her graveyard pen,
But she knows they are blessed, those poor dead men,
Under her consecrated mould,
Where a verse was read, and a prayer was told.
Lie a mother and child all stark and bare,
Save only a comb in the coal-black hair—
Yet God will remember they lie out there.
Whilst digging up a hitherto uncultivated bit of garden near the Mendips, a gardener came across the mutilated skeletons of a woman and baby. A comb still decorated the woman's coal-black hair. At the inquest afterwards held upon the skeletons, it was suggested that the woman and her baby were probably refugees from the battle of Sedgemoor.
Bitterness Casteth Out Love
And the dead fern holds the snow,
Love flew by, and the black night sky
Shadowed the vales below.
And the trees stand gaunt and bare,
I crouched me down, and the sullen frown
Of earth entombed me there.
"Man with the frozen soul;
Love sailed by, on a cloud-bound sky,
With the tears that sorrow stole."
Gone from your winter's heart.
Love flew by, like the tattered sigh
Bitterness tore apart."
And a shrivelled leaf made cry,
"If you are cold, and your heart be old,
For certain, Love must die."
And the dead fern holds the snow,
Sweet Love fled; and a spirit dead
Spectres the slopes below.