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
The Great War
Into His colour store God dipped His hand
And drew it forth
Full of strange hues forgotten, contraband
Of War and Wrath.
Time wove the pattern of the years, that so
The quick and dead
Might knit their bleeding crosses in. And lo!
A patch of red!
My London Garden, 1914
My Garden is a tiny square
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.
The Grass creeps up all in between the stones
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.
My little patch of bordered green and brown
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.
But, in the Spring, before black grime
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.
But stay!—
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
Such was my garden once, a Springtide hope of flowers,
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!
Ten more minutes! Say yer prayers,
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!
Eight. It's like as if a frog
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.
'Nother minute sprinted by
'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!
Three. Larst night a little star
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!
Two. I ain't ashamed o' prayers,
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)
Beneath the humid skies
Where green birds wing, and heavy burgeoned trees
Sway in the fevered breeze,
My Brother lies.
And rivers passionate[A]
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.
Beneath the sunlit skies,
Where bright birds wing, and rich luxuriant trees
Sway in the fevered breeze,
My Brother lies.
The bending grasses woo
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.
Sorrow
Send Sorrow away,
For Sorrow is dressed in grey,
And her eyes are dim
With a weary rim.
Send Sorrow away.
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.
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.
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!
So softly Time trod with me, that I lost
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.
So surely Time trod with me; marred my bloom,
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.
I could have borne it bravely, this I know,
Had not the lips of children told me so.
A Sacrament
Tears!—And I brought them to the Lord, and said:
"What are these crystal globes by nations shed?
What is the crimson flood that stains the land?
Where is Thy peace, and where Thy guiding hand?
Why are those thousands daily sacrificed?
Where is Thy might, and where the love of Christ?"
And from the heavens methought I heard a voice—
"Oh son of earth, I bid thee still rejoice!
Those crystal tears by men and nations shed
Water My harvest, sanctify My dead.
That crimson flood which stains the hapless earth
Is but the prelude to a nobler birth.
Those thousands, who for home have gladly died,
Sleep in the hope of Jesus crucified.
Flesh, Blood, and Water, Little Child of Mine,
Veil in their depths a Mystery divine."
I bowed my head, and prayed for faith to see
The inner visions of Calamity!
The Love-shed Tear
Knocked a man at the shining Gate,
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.
Roll'd the Heavenly portals back,
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?"
Saint Peter sighed, ill-gotten greed
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.
"And is this all?" Saint Peter said,
"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!
"Could I have found one single sign
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.
Down to the fires whose lurid light
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.
There in the haunts of deepest sin
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.
He wandered round from place to place,
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.
He cowered low in abject fear,
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 he had wept in grief and pain,
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.
Only a tear! The Heavenly Choir
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!"
Back again where the flaming sword
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.
"But now I come to Thee with this—
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!"
"Oh wondrous drop," Saint Peter cried,
"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!"
There in the lowest halls of grace,
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
Little Christ, little Christ,
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 Thy mother, Baby Christ,
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 tears to keep me clean,
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
The sky hung smooth o'er the line of hill
That shadowed the valley that seemed so still,
And the blackbird whistled his love notes shrill.
The church lay dreaming of God, and when
The bodies should rise from her graveyard pen
Where the high grass covered her poor dead men.
The water meadows shone rich with gold,
Gold that the buttercups had sold
To the nibbling sheep of the red ring-fold.
And even the river murmured rest
As the sun sank low in the tender west,
And the earth flowers slept on their mother's breast.
Over the valley that seemed so still,
Where the blackbird whistled his love-notes shrill
I gazed, and all against my will
I saw a vision beneath the hill.
Centuries passed like a mist away
And I stood in the glare of a burning day
Whilst the church-bells clamoured a call to pray.
War and its brother raced hand in hand,
That brother called Death; and they seared the land
With their fiery breath and the murder brand.
And copses and dales were bleeding red,
Naught was sacred, the living or dead,
The old, old man, or the girl just wed.
Men stormed the homestead, blazed the corn,
Pillaged and sacked from night till morn,
And spitted the babe that was newly born.
Savage and brutal, like hell-hounds freed,
They swarmed the hill, debauched with greed—
Some slunk behind, their lust to feed.
At last, when the streams ran human blood,
Soaking the fields in a scarlet flood,
A woman prayed with her child for food.
All on their way those soldiers passed
With a fœtid jest at her hapless fast,
And some men cut her down at last.
They cut her down! Oh, woe is me,
And they left her to rot in her misery,
Naked and scorned for the world to see.
They left her bare in the cold night air,
Save only the comb in her coal-black hair,
And they strangled the baby, helpless there.
They did not trouble to wind them round
In a sheet of earth in the dewy ground,
They looted them both for the spoil they found.
But the wind was kind. It wailed aloud
And churned the dust, till it rose a cloud
like a pearly mist, to form a shroud.
And the leaves swooned down to the wind's sweet call
And covered the mother and babe and all,
Till they lay at peace in a soft green pall.
The church still ponders, and wonders when
Those bodies will rise from her graveyard pen,
But she knows they are blessed, those poor dead men,
For they sleep within her Christian fold
Under her consecrated mould,
Where a verse was read, and a prayer was told.
But under the hill, in the leaves somewhere,
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
Over the hill where the white road sweeps,
And the dead fern holds the snow,
Love flew by, and the black night sky
Shadowed the vales below.
Down in the creek, where the ice-pools gleam
And the trees stand gaunt and bare,
I crouched me down, and the sullen frown
Of earth entombed me there.
"Ah," mocked the ice-pool, hard and clear,
"Man with the frozen soul;
Love sailed by, on a cloud-bound sky,
With the tears that sorrow stole."
"Gone," said the fern, "from your frost-bound touch;
Gone from your winter's heart.
Love flew by, like the tattered sigh
Bitterness tore apart."
And the aching trees bowed branch and twig
And a shrivelled leaf made cry,
"If you are cold, and your heart be old,
For certain, Love must die."
Over the hill, where the white road sweeps,
And the dead fern holds the snow,
Sweet Love fled; and a spirit dead
Spectres the slopes below.
The Hour of Happiness