Oxford poetry, 1920

V. DE S. PINTO (CHRIST CHURCH) Whence came the thought of Semele to you? And why this chain of words now coiled on me As a predestined victim? Zeus I myself Blaze with the fire of Semele. This hand Shall rend the veil once more. Myself am hope, Sole arbiter of germinating life, The driver of the lusty winds of morning, The cloud-compeller, dancer of the dance Wherein the sea is festive and the hills Nod musical assent, the charioteer That drags the world behind his flashing wheels, Bringer of life and change that is called death And vibrant longing, setter of an end To fear and doubt, a darting two-edged sword That heals the wounds created of itself, The crystal-veined one, in whose blood there flows The flame of life—in such wise apprehend Me standing here, and in such wise remark The honour I have done you. Alcmena Open-eyed At last, I see a spirit stands beside me. For this cause I grew pale and bent my head In sweet confusion. Bringer of release, Even if it should be my worship falls Before a devil from hell, behold I kneel To kiss the fragrance of your garment’s hem. V. DE S. PINTO ( CHRIST CHURCH ) ART F ATE from an unimaginable throne Scatters a million roses on the world; They fall like shooting stars across the sky Glittering: Under a dark clump of trees Man, a gaunt creature, squats upon the ground Ape-like, and grins to see those brilliant flowers Raining through the dark foliage: He tries Sometimes to clutch at them, but in his hands They melt like snow. Then in despair he turns Back to his wigwam, stirs the embers, pats His blear-eyed dog, and smokes a pipe, and soon, Wrapped in his blankets, drowses off to sleep. But all his dreams are full of flying flowers. ALAN PORTER ( QUEEN’S ) LIFE AND LUXURY I HELD imagination’s candle high To thread the pitchy cavern, life. A whisper Dazed all the dark with sweetness oversweet, A lithe body languished around my neck. “Do out this unavailing light;” she pleaded. “Soother is darkness. How may candle strive With topless, bleak, obdurate blanks of space? It can but cold the darkness else were warm. Leave, leave to search so bitter-toilfully Unthroughgone silence, leave and follow me; For I will lead where many riches lie, Where rippling silks and snow-soft cushions, rare Cool wines, and delicates unearthly sweet, And all the comfort flesh of man craves more. We two shall dallying uncurl the long And fragrant hours.” She reached a slender arm Slowly along mine to the light. I flung her Off, down. My candle showed her cheeks raddled, Her bindweed pressure made me sick and mad; I flung her back to the gloom. Her further hand Clanked; hidden gyves fell ringing to the rock. Peering behind her barely I could discern Outstretching bodies clamped along the floor, Unmoving most and silent, some uneasy, Stirring and moaning. Smothery clutches came Of slothful scents and fingered at my throat; But, brushing by them, unaccompanied I held aloft my rushlight in the cave And searched for beauty through the cleaner air. Thus far in parable. Laugh loud, O world, Laugh loud and hollow. There are those would spurn Your joys unjoyous and your acid fruits. They would not tread the corpsy paths of commerce Nor juggle with men’s bones; they would not chaffer Their souls for strumpet pleasure. Cast them out, Deny what little they would ask of life, Assail, starve, torture, murder them, and laugh. Shall it be war between us? Better war Than faint submission—better death. And yet I would not, no, nor shall not die. How weaponed Shall I go passionate against your host? How, cautelous, elude your calm blockade? Of older days heart-free the poet roved Along the furrowed lanes, and watched the robin Squat in a puddle, whir his stumpy wings, And tweet amid the tempest he aroused; A hare would hirple on ahead (keep back, Let her get out of sight; quick, cross yourself), Or taper weasel slink past over the road; And, seeing native blossoms, breathing air From English hills, what recked the wanderer That barons threw no penny to his song? Should he be hungered, he would seek some rill And, scrambling down the hazel scarp, would walk Wet-ankled up the stream until he found A larger pool of cold, colourless water, Full two-foot deep, scooped out of solid stone By a chuckling trickle spated after rains. There he would rest upon the bank, while slowly His fingers crept along the crannied rock. Poor starveling belly!—No, that lower fissure, Straight, lipless grin like an unholy god’s, Reach out for that. The water stings to his armpit, He hangs above the pool from head to waist, His legs push tautly back for body’s poise, And careful, careful creep the sensitive fingers. —Sudden touch of cold, wet silk. Now flesh be one with brain! He lightly strokes The slippery smoothness upward to the gills And throws a twiring trout upon the grass. Or where the rattle of the water slacks To low leaf-whisper, there he gropes beneath Root-knots that hug black, unctuous mould from toppling To slutch the daylit stream. His wary nerves Tell blunt teeth biting at his thumb. Stormswift He snatches a heavy hand over his head. A floundering eel flops wildly to the floor, And glides for the water. Quick the hungry poet Spins round, whips out his knife, and shears the neck How firm soever gripped, the limber body Long after wriggles headless out of hand. But if he roam across foot-tangling heath And bracken, where no burble glads the root Of juicy grasses? If along his way Never a kingcup lifted bowls of light, Nor burly watermint with bludgeon scent, Beat down the fair, mild, slumbering meadowsweet? If no nearby forgetmenot looks up With frank and modest eye, no yellow flag Plays Harold crowned and girt by fearless pikes? No more he fails of ample fare; nor famine Drains out his blood and piecemeal drags his flesh From outward-leaping bones, till wrathful death, Grudging to lose a pebble from his cairn, Bears off the pitiful orts. For, stepping soft, He finds a rabbit gazing at the world With eyes in which not many moons have gleamed; And, raising a bawl of more expended breath Than fritter your burghers in a year of gabbling, He runs and hurls himself headlong on to it. Stunned at the cry, the rabbit waits and dithers; His muscles melt beneath him; “Pluck up strength,” He calls to his legs; “oh, stiffen, stiffen!” and still He waits and dithers. Now the trembling scale Of timeless pain crashes suddenly down, And life’s a puffed-out flame. Thus the poet Of bygone England (as an alchemist After ill magics and long labours wrought Seals in the flask his magisterium, Lest volatile it waste among the winds, And all men breathe a never-ageing youth) Found way to pend within his body life And what of pain or interwoven joy Life brings to poets. Friend, I do not gulp And weep with maudlin, sentimental tears, Lacking a late lamented golden age. The more of life was ever misery’s, And Socrates won hemlock. Yet before Was man so constant enemy to man? Did earth grow bleak at all these purposeless, Rotting and blotting, roaking, smoking chimneys? Look, men are dying, women dying, children dying. They sell their souls for bread, and poison-filths Whiten their flesh, bow their bodies. Crippled, Consumption-spotted, feeble-minded, sullen, They seek, bewildered, out of black despair, The star of life; so, dying a Christian death, Lie seven a grave unheedful. “Bad as that? Put down five hundred on the Lord Mayor’s list. After the cost of organizing’s paid There’ll still be something left. Besides, it looks well, And charity brings the firm new customers. Not that I hold with all this nonsense really. When I was young I’d nothing more than they, But I climbed, and trampled other people down. Why shouldn’t they?” O murderers, look, look, look. No man but tramples, tramples on his neighbour, And these the lowest wrench and writhe and kick And crush the desperate lives of whom they can. I will not tread the corpsy path of commerce Nor juggle with men’s bones. The world shall wend Those murderous ways. Not I, no, never I. You shall not gaol me round with city walls; I will not waste among your houses; roads That indiscriminate feel a thousand footings Shall not for mine augment their insolence. But, as of old the poet, poet now Shall hold a near communion with earth, Free from all traffic or truck with worldlihood: As poet one time lived of natural bounty, So now shall I. Yet differs even this. Me no man wronging still the world shall hound With interdict of food. Gamekeepers, bailiffs, And all the manlings vail and bob to lords Shall sturdy stand on decent English Law And threat my famine with a worser fate, The seasonless monotonies of walls That straitlier cabin than the closest town. So let them threat. War stands between us. I Take peril comrade, knowing a hazel scarp That breaks down ragged to a scampering brook; Knowing a hill whose deep-slit, slanting sides Brave out the wind and shoulder the rough clouds through. A FAR COUNTRY T HIS wood is older born than other woods: The trees are God’s imagining of trees, Anemones So pale as these Have never laughed like children in far solitudes, Shaking and breaking worldforweary moods To pure and childish glees. The dripple from the mossed and plashing beck Has carven glassy walls of pallid stone, Where ferns have thrown Fine silks unsewn, Faint clouds unskied, that, one enchanted moment, check And chalice waterdrops. They, silver grown, With moons the darkness fleck. HILDA REID ( SOMERVILLE ) THE MAGNANIMITY OF BEASTS M AN—you who think you really know The beast you gaze on in the show, Nor see with what consummate art Each animal enacts its part— How different do they all appear The moment that you are not there! Then, fawns with liquid eyes a-flame Pursue the bear, their nightly game; Wolves shiver as the rabbit roars And stretches his terrific claws; While trembling tigers dare not sleep For passionate, relentless sheep, And frantic eagles through the skies Are chased by angry butterflies. —But beasts would suffer all confusions Before they shattered man’s illusions. EDGELL RICKWORD ( PEMBROKE ) INTIMACY S INCE I have seen you do those intimate things That other men but dream of; lull asleep The sinister dark forest of your hair, And tie the bows that stir on your calm breast Faintly as leaves that shudder in their sleep. Since I have seen your stocking swallow up, A swift black wind, the pale flame of your foot, And deemed your slender limbs so meshed in silk Sweet mermaid sisters drowned in their dark hair; I have not troubled overmuch with food, And wine has seemed like water from a well; Pavements are built of fire, grass of thin flames. All other girls grow dull as painted flowers Or flutter harmlessly like coloured flies Whose wings are tangled in the net of leaves Spread by frail trees that grow behind the eyes. GRAVE JOYS TO PEGGY W HEN our sweet bodies moulder under-ground, Shut off from these bright waters and clear skies, When we hear nothing but the sullen sound Of dead flesh dropping slowly from the bone And muffled fall of tongue and ears and eyes; Perhaps, as each disintegrates alone, Frail broken vials once brimmed with curious sense, Our souls will pitch old Grossness from his throne, And on the beat of unsubstantial wings Soar to new ecstasies still more intense. There the thin voice of horny, black-legged things Shall thrill me as girls’ laughter thrills me here, And the cold drops a passing storm-cloud flings Be my strong wine, and crawling roots and clods My trees and hills, and slugs swift fallow deer. There I shall dote upon a sexless flower By dream-ghosts planted in my dripping brain, And suck from those cold petals subtler power Than from your colder, whiter flesh could fall, Most vile of girls and lovelier than all. But in your tomb the deathless She will reign And draw new lovers out of rotting sods That your lithe body may for ever squirm Beneath the strange embraces of the worm. ADVICE TO A GIRL FROM THE WARS W EEP for me but one day, Dry then your eyes; Think, is a heap of clay Worth a maid’s sighs? Sigh nine days if you can For my waste blood; Think then, you love a man Whose face is mud; Whose flesh and hair thrill not At your faint touch; Dear! limbs and brain will rot, Dream not of such. YEGOR “What shall I write?” said Yegor.— Tchekov. “W HAT shall I write?” said Yegor; “Of the bright-plumed bird that sings Hovering on the fringes of the forest, Where leafy dreams are grown, And thoughts go with silent flutterings, Like moths by a dark wind blown?” “Oh, write of those quiet women, Beautiful, slim and pale, Whose bodies glimmer under cool green waters, Whose hands like lilies float Tangled in the heavy purple veil Of hair on their breast and throat.” “Or write of swans and princes Carved out of marble clouds, Of the flowers that wither upon distant mountains, Grey-pencilled in the brain; Of fiercely hurrying night-born crowds By the first swift sun-ray slain.” “Nay, I will sing,” said Yegor, “Of stranger things than these, Of a girl I met in the fresh of morning, A laughing, slender flame; Of the slow stream’s song and the chant of bees, In a land without a name.” STRANGE ELEMENTS W HEN my girl swims with me I think She is a Shark with hungry teeth, Because her throat that dazzles me Is white as sharks are underneath. And when she drags me down with her Under the wave, she clings so tight, She seems a deadly Water-snake Who smothers me in that dim light. Yet when we lie on the hot sand, I find she cannot bite or hiss, But she swears I’m a Tiger fierce Who kills her slowly with a kiss. W. FORCE STEAD ( QUEEN’S ) THE BURDEN OF BABYLON [A] “It is in the soul that things happen.” [A] The lyrics from “The Burden of Babylon” appeared in Oxford Poetry , 1919. The present editors have decided to reprint them with their context. Scene : An upper chamber in the Palace of the King of Babylon. Dusk on a hot summer’s evening. The voice of one singing far off beyond the palace-gardens is heard vaguely from time to time. The King is sitting by an open window. The King of Babylon S INCE I am Babylon, I am the world. The windy heavens and the rainy skies Attend the earth in humble servitude. And I am Babylon, I am the world: The heavens and their powers attend on me. The Voice of One Crying in the Night Babylon, the glory of the Kingdoms, And the Chaldee’s excellency, Is become as Sodom and Gomorrah, Whom God overthrew by the Sea. The King Who is that fellow crying by the river? I think I heard him lift his voice in praise Of Babylon: some minstrelle seeking hire: I need him not to tell me who I am, For I am Baladan of Babylon. The splendours of my sceptre, throne, and crown, And all the awe that fills my royal halls, The pomp that heralds me, the shout that follows, Are flying shadows and reflections only From the wide dazzlings of myself, the King. This I conceive: and yet, we kings have labour To apprehend ourselves imperially, And see the blaze and lightnings of our person; The thought of their own sovereignty amazes The princelings even, and the lesser kings: But I am Baladan of Babylon. The Voice in the Night Never again inhabited, Babylon, O Babylon Even the wandering Arabian From thy weary waste is gone. Neither shall the shepherd tend his fold there, Nor any green herb be grown: It cometh in the night-time suddenly, And Babylon is overthrown. The King Pale from the east, the stars arise, and climb, And then grow bright, beholding Babylon; They would delay, but may not; so they pass, And fade and fall, bereft of Babylon. Quick from the Midian line the sun comes up, For he expects to see my palaces; And the moon lingers, even on the wane.... Mine ancient dynasty, as yon great river, Euphrates, with his fountains in far hills, Arose in the blue morning of the years; And as yon river flows on into time, Unalterable in majesty, my line Survives in domination down the years. I know, but am concerned not, that some peoples, At the pale limits of the world, abide As yet beyond the circle of my sway, The miserable sons of meagre soil That needs much tillage ere the yield be good. I only wait until they ripen more, And fatten toward my final harvesting: When I am ready, I will reap them in. For it is written in the stars, and read Of all my wise men and astrologers, That I, and my great line of Babylon, Shall rule the world, and only find a bound Where the horizon’s bounds are set, an end When the world ends; so shall all other lands, All languages, all peoples, and all tongues, Become a fable told of olden times, Deemed of our sons a thing incredulous. The Voice in the Night Woeful are thy desolate palaces, Where doleful creatures lie, And wild beasts out of the islands In thy fallen chambers cry. Where now are the viol and the tabret?— But owls hoot in moonlight, And over the ruins of Babylon The satyrs dance by night. The King That voice, that seems to hum my kingdom’s glory Fails in the vast immensity of night, As fails all earthly praise of Him who hears The ceaseless acclamation of the stars. What needs there more?—the apple of the world, Grown ripe and juicy, rolls into my lap, And all the gods of Babylon, well pleased With blood of bulls and fume of fragrant things, Even while I take mine ease, attend on me: The figs do mellow, the olive, and the vine, And in the plains climb the big sycamores; My camels and my laden dromedaries Move in from eastward bearing odorous gums, And the Zidonians hew me cedar beams, Even tall cedars out of Lebanon; Euphrates floats his treasured freightage down, And all great Babylon is filled with spoil. Wherefore, upon the summit of the world, The utmost apex of this thronèd realm, I stand, as stands the driving charioteer, And steer my course right onward toward the stars. Mean-fated men my horses trample under, And my wine-bins have drained the blood of mothers, And smoothly my wheels run upon the necks Of babes and sucklings,—while I hold my way, Serene, supreme, secure in destiny, Because the gods perceive mine excellence, And entertain for mine imperial Person Peculiar favours.... I am Babylon: Exceeding precious in the High One’s eyes. The Voice in the Night Babylon is fallen, fallen, And never shall be known again! Drunken with the blood of my belovèd, And trampling on the sons of men. But God is awake and aware of thee, And sharply shines His sword, Where over the earth spring suddenly The hidden hosts of the Lord; Armies of right and of righteousness, Huge hosts, unseen, unknown: And thy pomp, and thy revellings, and glory, Where the wind goes, they are gone. L. A. G. STRONG ( WADHAM ) FROST U NNATURAL foliage pales the trees, Frost in compassion of their death Has kissed them, and his icy breath Proclaims and silvers their election. Death, wert thou beautiful as these, We scarce would pray for resurrection. VERA VENVSTAS Corporis P ROUD Eastern Queene, Borne forth in splendour to thy buriall. What need of gems To deck thee? Bear the Tyrian gauds aside. Thy own dead loveliness outshines the pride Of diadems. Animæ O splendid hearte, Scorned and afflicted, still thou needest not Comfort of me. What matter though the body be uncouthe Wherein thou art? Fear not. He seeth truth Who gave it thee. [To be chaunted as in a solemn Dumpe by such as fear God.] A BABY T WO days with puckered face of pain The accidental baby cried, And on the morning of the third Unclenched her tiny hands, and died. FROM THE GREEK B ILL Jupp lies ’ere, aged sixty year: From Tavistock ’e came. Single ’e bided, and ’e wished ’Is father’d done the same. A DEVON RHYME G NARLY and bent and deaf ’s a post Pore ol’ Ezekiel Purvis Goeth creepin’ slowly up the ’ill To the Commoonion Survis. Tap-tappy-tappy up the haisle Goeth stick and brassy ferule; And Parson ’ath to stoopy down And ’olley in ees yerole. THE BIRD MAN TO ERIC DICKINSON I DREAD the parrots of the summer sun, The harsh and blazing screams of July noon, A riot of jays and peacocks and macaws. There is some presage of big ardours due Even in the pale flamingoes of the dawn; While golden pheasants and hoopoes of the West Burn fierce and proudly still, when he has set. Better the winter wagtails of pied skies, Cold ospreys of the north, cormorants of squall, Brown wrens of rain, white silent owls of snow, And bitterns of great clouds that in October Sweep from the west at evening. Lovelier still The night’s black swans, the daws of starless night (Daw-like to hide what’s shiny), plovers and gulls Of winds that cry on autumn afternoons.... These every one I love: but above these Rarest of all my birds, I dearly love The blue and silver herons of the moon. CHRISTOPHER MARLYE C HRISTOPHER MARLYE damned his God In many a blasphemous mighty line, —Being given to words and wenches and wine. He wrote his Faustus, and laughed to see How everyone feared his devils but he. Christopher Marlye passed the gate, Eager to stalk on the floor of Heaven, Outface his God, and affront the Seven: But Peter genially let him in, Making no mention of all his sin. And he got no credit for all he had done, Though he grabbed a hold on the coat of God, And bellowed his infamies one by one, Blasphemy, lechery, thought, and deed ... But nobody paid him the slightest heed. And the devils and torments he thought to brave He left behind, on this side of the grave. Heigh-ho! for Christopher Marlye. PRINTED IN GREAT BRITAIN BY BILLING AND SONS, LTD., GUILDFORD AND ESHER *** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK OXFORD POETRY, 1920 *** Updated editions will replace the previous one—the old editions will be renamed. 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