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diff --git a/30276-0.txt b/30276-0.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..a99343c --- /dev/null +++ b/30276-0.txt @@ -0,0 +1,1899 @@ +*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 30276 *** + +SOME IMAGIST POETS + + + + SOME IMAGIST + POETS + + AN ANTHOLOGY + + + BOSTON AND NEW YORK + HOUGHTON MIFFLIN COMPANY + The Riverside Press Cambridge + 1915 + + + + COPYRIGHT, 1915, BY HOUGHTON MIFFLIN COMPANY + + ALL RIGHTS RESERVED + + _Published April 1915_ + + + + +PREFACE + + +In March, 1914, a volume appeared entitled "Des Imagistes." It was a +collection of the work of various young poets, presented together as a +school. This school has been widely discussed by those interested in new +movements in the arts, and has already become a household word. +Differences of taste and judgment, however, have arisen among the +contributors to that book; growing tendencies are forcing them along +different paths. Those of us whose work appears in this volume have +therefore decided to publish our collection under a new title, and we have +been joined by two or three poets who did not contribute to the first +volume, our wider scope making this possible. + +In this new book we have followed a slightly different arrangement to that +of the former Anthology. Instead of an arbitrary selection by an editor, +each poet has been permitted to represent himself by the work he considers +his best, the only stipulation being that it should not yet have appeared +in book form. A sort of informal committee--consisting of more than half +the authors here represented--have arranged the book and decided what +should be printed and what omitted, but, as a general rule, the poets +have been allowed absolute freedom in this direction, limitations of space +only being imposed upon them. Also, to avoid any appearance of precedence, +they have been put in alphabetical order. + +As it has been suggested that much of the misunderstanding of the former +volume was due to the fact that we did not explain ourselves in a preface, +we have thought it wise to tell the public what our aims are, and why we +are banded together between one set of covers. + +The poets in this volume do not represent a clique. Several of them are +personally unknown to the others, but they are united by certain common +principles, arrived at independently. These principles are not new; they +have fallen into desuetude. They are the essentials of all great poetry, +indeed of all great literature, and they are simply these:-- + +1. To use the language of common speech, but to employ always the _exact_ +word, not the nearly-exact, nor the merely decorative word. + +2. To create new rhythms--as the expression of new moods--and not to copy +old rhythms, which merely echo old moods. We do not insist upon +"free-verse" as the only method of writing poetry. We fight for it as for +a principle of liberty. We believe that the individuality of a poet may +often be better expressed in free-verse than in conventional forms. In +poetry, a new cadence means a new idea. + +3. To allow absolute freedom in the choice of subject. It is not good art +to write badly about aeroplanes and automobiles; nor is it necessarily bad +art to write well about the past. We believe passionately in the artistic +value of modern life, but we wish to point out that there is nothing so +uninspiring nor so old-fashioned as an aeroplane of the year 1911. + +4. To present an image (hence the name: "Imagist"). We are not a school of +painters, but we believe that poetry should render particulars exactly and +not deal in vague generalities, however magnificent and sonorous. It is +for this reason that we oppose the cosmic poet, who seems to us to shirk +the real difficulties of his art. + +5. To produce poetry that is hard and clear, never blurred nor indefinite. + +6. Finally, most of us believe that concentration is of the very essence +of poetry. + +The subject of free-verse is too complicated to be discussed here. We may +say briefly, that we attach the term to all that increasing amount of +writing whose cadence is more marked, more definite, and closer knit than +that of prose, but which is not so violently nor so obviously accented as +the so-called "regular verse." We refer those interested in the question +to the Greek Melic poets, and to the many excellent French studies on the +subject by such distinguished and well-equipped authors as Remy de +Gourmont, Gustave Kahn, Georges Duhamel, Charles Vildrac, Henri Ghéon, +Robert de Souza, André Spire, etc. + +We wish it to be clearly understood that we do not represent an exclusive +artistic sect; we publish our work together because of mutual artistic +sympathy, and we propose to bring out our coöperative volume each year for +a short term of years, until we have made a place for ourselves and our +principles such as we desire. + + + + +CONTENTS + + RICHARD ALDINGTON + Childhood 3 + The Poplar 10 + Round-Pond 12 + Daisy 13 + Epigrams 15 + The Faun sees Snow for the First Time 16 + Lemures 17 + + H. D. + The Pool 21 + The Garden 22 + Sea Lily 24 + Sea Iris 25 + Sea Rose 27 + Oread 28 + Orion Dead 29 + + JOHN GOULD FLETCHER + The Blue Symphony 33 + London Excursion 39 + + F. S. FLINT + Trees 53 + Lunch 55 + Malady 56 + Accident 58 + Fragment 60 + Houses 62 + Eau-Forte 63 + + D. H. LAWRENCE + Ballad of Another Ophelia 67 + Illicit 69 + Fireflies in the Corn 70 + A Woman and Her Dead Husband 72 + The Mowers 75 + Scent of Irises 76 + Green 78 + + AMY LOWELL + Venus Transiens 81 + The Travelling Bear 83 + The Letter 85 + Grotesque 86 + Bullion 87 + Solitaire 88 + The Bombardment 89 + + BIBLIOGRAPHY 93 + + + Thanks are due to the editors of _Poetry_, _The Smart Set_, + _Poetry and Drama_, and _The Egoist_ for their courteous + permission to reprint certain of these poems which have been + copyrighted to them. + + + + +RICHARD ALDINGTON + + + +RICHARD ALDINGTON + + +CHILDHOOD + + I + + The bitterness, the misery, the wretchedness of childhood + Put me out of love with God. + I can't believe in God's goodness; + I can believe + In many avenging gods. + Most of all I believe + In gods of bitter dullness, + Cruel local gods + Who seared my childhood. + + II + + I've seen people put + A chrysalis in a match-box, + "To see," they told me, "what sort of moth would come." + But when it broke its shell + It slipped and stumbled and fell about its prison + And tried to climb to the light + For space to dry its wings. + + That's how I was. + Somebody found my chrysalis + And shut it in a match-box. + My shrivelled wings were beaten, + Shed their colours in dusty scales + Before the box was opened + For the moth to fly. + + And then it was too late, + Because the beauty a child has, + And the beautiful things it learns before its birth, + Were shed, like moth-scales, from me. + + III + + I hate that town; + I hate the town I lived in when I was little; + I hate to think of it. + There were always clouds, smoke, rain + In that dingy little valley. + It rained; it always rained. + I think I never saw the sun until I was nine-- + And then it was too late; + Everything's too late after the first seven years. + + That long street we lived in + Was duller than a drain + And nearly as dingy. + There were the big College + And the pseudo-Gothic town-hall. + There were the sordid provincial shops-- + The grocer's, and the shops for women, + The shop where I bought transfers, + And the piano and gramaphone shop + Where I used to stand + Staring at the huge shiny pianos and at the pictures + Of a white dog looking into a gramaphone. + + How dull and greasy and grey and sordid it was! + On wet days--it was always wet-- + I used to kneel on a chair + And look at it from the window. + + The dirty yellow trams + Dragged noisily along + With a clatter of wheels and bells + And a humming of wires overhead. + They threw up the filthy rain-water from the hollow lines + And then the water ran back + Full of brownish foam bubbles. + + There was nothing else to see-- + It was all so dull-- + Except a few grey legs under shiny black umbrellas + Running along the grey shiny pavements; + Sometimes there was a waggon + Whose horses made a strange loud hollow sound + With their hoofs + Through the silent rain. + + And there was a grey museum + Full of dead birds and dead insects and dead animals + And a few relics of the Romans--dead also. + There was the sea-front, + A long asphalt walk with a bleak road beside it, + Three piers, a row of houses, + And a salt dirty smell from the little harbour. + + I was like a moth--- + Like one of those grey Emperor moths + Which flutter through the vines at Capri. + And that damned little town was my match-box, + Against whose sides I beat and beat + Until my wings were torn and faded, and dingy + As that damned little town. + + IV + + At school it was just dull as that dull High Street. + They taught me pothooks-- + I wanted to be alone, although I was so little, + Alone, away from the rain, the dingyness, the dullness, + Away somewhere else-- + + The town was dull; + The front was dull; + The High Street and the other street were dull-- + And there was a public park, I remember, + And that was damned dull too, + With its beds of geraniums no one was allowed to pick, + And its clipped lawns you weren't allowed to walk on, + And the gold-fish pond you mustn't paddle in, + And the gate made out of a whale's jaw-bones, + And the swings, which were for "Board-School children," + And its gravel paths. + + And on Sundays they rang the bells, + From Baptist and Evangelical and Catholic churches. + They had the Salvation Army. + I was taken to a High Church; + The parson's name was Mowbray, + "Which is a good name but he thinks too much of it--" + That's what I heard people say. + + I took a little black book + To that cold, grey, damp, smelling church, + And I had to sit on a hard bench, + Wriggle off it to kneel down when they sang psalms, + And wriggle off it to kneel down when they prayed-- + And then there was nothing to do + Except to play trains with the hymn-books. + + There was nothing to see, + Nothing to do, + Nothing to play with, + Except that in an empty room upstairs + There was a large tin box + Containing reproductions of the Magna Charta, + Of the Declaration of Independence + And of a letter from Raleigh after the Armada. + There were also several packets of stamps, + Yellow and blue Guatemala parrots, + Blue stags and red baboons and birds from Sarawak, + Indians and Men-of-war + From the United States, + And the green and red portraits + Of King Francobollo + Of Italy. + + V + + I don't believe in God. + I do believe in avenging gods + Who plague us for sins we never sinned + But who avenge us. + + That's why I'll never have a child, + Never shut up a chrysalis in a match-box + For the moth to spoil and crush its bright colours, + Beating its wings against the dingy prison-wall. + + +THE POPLAR + + Why do you always stand there shivering + Between the white stream and the road? + + The people pass through the dust + On bicycles, in carts, in motor-cars; + The waggoners go by at dawn; + The lovers walk on the grass path at night. + + Stir from your roots, walk, poplar! + You are more beautiful than they are. + + I know that the white wind loves you, + Is always kissing you and turning up + The white lining of your green petticoat. + The sky darts through you like blue rain, + And the grey rain drips on your flanks + And loves you. + And I have seen the moon + Slip his silver penny into your pocket + As you straightened your hair; + And the white mist curling and hesitating + Like a bashful lover about your knees. + + I know you, poplar; + I have watched you since I was ten. + But if you had a little real love, + A little strength, + You would leave your nonchalant idle lovers + And go walking down the white road + Behind the waggoners. + + There are beautiful beeches down beyond the hill. + Will you always stand there shivering? + + +ROUND-POND + + Water ruffled and speckled by galloping wind + Which puffs and spurts it into tiny pashing breakers + Dashed with lemon-yellow afternoon sunlight. + The shining of the sun upon the water + Is like a scattering of gold crocus-petals + In a long wavering irregular flight. + + The water is cold to the eye + As the wind to the cheek. + + In the budding chestnuts + Whose sticky buds glimmer and are half-burst open + The starlings make their clitter-clatter; + And the blackbirds in the grass + Are getting as fat as the pigeons. + + Too-hoo, this is brave; + Even the cold wind is seeking a new mistress. + + +DAISY + + "_Plus quam se atque suos amavit omnes, + Nunc_..." + + CATULLUS. + + You were my playmate by the sea. + We swam together. + Your girl's body had no breasts. + + We found prawns among the rocks; + We liked to feel the sun and to do nothing; + In the evening we played games with the others. + + It made me glad to be by you. + + Sometimes I kissed you, + And you were always glad to kiss me; + But I was afraid--I was only fourteen. + + And I had quite forgotten you, + You and your name. + + To-day I pass through the streets. + She who touches my arm and talks with me + Is--who knows?--Helen of Sparta, + Dryope, Laodamia.... + + And there are you + A whore in Oxford Street. + + +EPIGRAMS + + A GIRL + + You were that clear Sicilian fluting + That pains our thought even now. + You were the notes + Of cold fantastic grief + Some few found beautiful. + + NEW LOVE + + She has new leaves + After her dead flowers, + Like the little almond-tree + Which the frost hurt. + + OCTOBER + + The beech-leaves are silver + For lack of the tree's blood. + + At your kiss my lips + Become like the autumn beech-leaves. + + +THE FAUN SEES SNOW FOR THE FIRST TIME + + Zeus, + Brazen-thunder-hurler, + Cloud-whirler, son-of-Kronos, + Send vengeance on these Oreads + Who strew + White frozen flecks of mist and cloud + Over the brown trees and the tufted grass + Of the meadows, where the stream + Runs black through shining banks + Of bluish white. + + Zeus, + Are the halls of heaven broken up + That you flake down upon me + Feather-strips of marble? + + Dis and Styx! + When I stamp my hoof + The frozen-cloud-specks jam into the cleft + So that I reel upon two slippery points.... + + Fool, to stand here cursing + When I might be running! + + +LEMURES + + In Nineveh + And beyond Nineveh + In the dusk + They were afraid. + + In Thebes of Egypt + In the dusk + They chanted of them to the dead. + + In my Lesbos and Achaia + Where the God dwelt + We knew them. + + Now men say "They are not": + But in the dusk + Ere the white sun comes-- + A gay child that bears a white candle-- + I am afraid of their rustling, + Of their terrible silence, + The menace of their secrecy. + + + + +H. D. + + + +H. D. + + +THE POOL + + Are you alive? + I touch you. + You quiver like a sea-fish. + I cover you with my net. + What are you--banded one? + + +THE GARDEN + + I + + You are clear, + O rose, cut in rock, + hard as the descent of hail. + + I could scrape the colour + from the petal, + like spilt dye from a rock. + + If I could break you + I could break a tree. + + If I could stir + I could break a tree, + I could break you. + + II + + O wind, + rend open the heat, + cut apart the heat, + rend it sideways. + + Fruit can not drop + through this thick air: + fruit can not fall into heat + that presses up and blunts + the points of pears + and rounds the grapes. + + Cut the heat, + plough through it, + turning it on either side + of your path. + + +SEA LILY + + Reed, + slashed and torn, + but doubly rich-- + such great heads as yours + drift upon temple-steps, + but you are shattered + in the wind. + + Myrtle-bark + is flecked from you, + scales are dashed + from your stem, + sand cuts your petal, + furrows it with hard edge, + like flint + on a bright stone. + + Yet though the whole wind + slash at your bark, + you are lifted up, + aye--though it hiss + to cover you with froth. + + +SEA IRIS + + I + + Weed, moss-weed, + root tangled in sand, + sea-iris, brittle flower, + one petal like a shell + is broken, + and you print a shadow + like a thin twig. + + Fortunate one, + scented and stinging, + rigid myrrh-bud, + camphor-flower, + sweet and salt--you are wind + in our nostrils. + + II + + Do the murex-fishers + drench you as they pass? + Do your roots drag up colour + from the sand? + Have they slipped gold under you; + rivets of gold? + + Band of iris-flowers + above the waves, + You are painted blue, + painted like a fresh prow + stained among the salt weeds. + + +SEA ROSE + + Rose, harsh rose, + marred and with stint of petals, + meagre flower, thin, + sparse of leaf. + + more precious + than a wet rose, + single on a stem-- + you are caught in the drift. + + Stunted, with small leaf, + you are flung on the sands, + you are lifted + in the crisp sand + that drives in the wind. + + Can the spice-rose + drip such acrid fragrance + hardened in a leaf? + + +OREAD + + Whirl up, sea-- + Whirl your pointed pines, + Splash your great pines + On our rocks, + Hurl your green over us, + Cover us with your pools of fir. + + +ORION DEAD + + [_Artemis speaks_] + The cornel-trees + uplift from the furrows, + the roots at their bases + strike lower through the barley-sprays. + + So arise and face me. + I am poisoned with the rage of song. + + _I once pierced the flesh + of the wild-deer, + now am I afraid to touch + the blue and the gold-veined hyacinths?_ + + _I will tear the full flowers + and the little heads + of the grape-hyacinths. + I will strip the life from the bulb + until the ivory layers + lie like narcissus petals + on the black earth._ + + _Arise, + lest I bend an ash-tree + into a taut bow, + and slay--and tear + all the roots from the earth._ + + The cornel-wood blazes + and strikes through the barley-sprays, + but I have lost heart for this. + + I break a staff. + I break the tough branch. + I know no light in the woods. + I have lost pace with the winds. + + + + +JOHN GOULD FLETCHER + + + +JOHN GOULD FLETCHER + + +THE BLUE SYMPHONY + + I + + The darkness rolls upward. + The thick darkness carries with it + Rain and a ravel of cloud. + The sun comes forth upon earth. + + Palely the dawn + Leaves me facing timidly + Old gardens sunken: + And in the gardens is water. + + Sombre wreck--autumnal leaves; + Shadowy roofs + In the blue mist, + And a willow-branch that is broken. + + O old pagodas of my soul, how you glittered across green trees! + + Blue and cool: + Blue, tremulously, + Blow faint puffs of smoke + Across sombre pools. + The damp green smell of rotted wood; + And a heron that cries from out the water. + + II + + Through the upland meadows + I go alone. + For I dreamed of someone last night + Who is waiting for me. + + Flower and blossom, tell me do you know of her? + + Have the rocks hidden her voice? + They are very blue and still. + + Long upward road that is leading me, + Light hearted I quit you, + For the long loose ripples of the meadow-grass + Invite me to dance upon them. + + Quivering grass + Daintily poised + For her foot's tripping. + + O blown clouds, could I only race up like you, + Oh, the last slopes that are sun-drenched and steep! + + Look, the sky! + Across black valleys + Rise blue-white aloft + Jagged, unwrinkled mountains, ranges of death. + + Solitude. Silence. + + III + + One chuckles by the brook for me: + One rages under the stone. + One makes a spout of his mouth, + One whispers--one is gone. + + One over there on the water + Spreads cold ripples + For me + Enticingly. + + The vast dark trees + Flow like blue veils + Of tears + Into the water. + + Sour sprites, + Moaning and chuckling, + What have you hidden from me? + + "In the palace of the blue stone she lies forever + Bound hand and foot." + + Was it the wind + That rattled the reeds together? + + Dry reeds, + A faint shiver in the grasses. + + IV + + On the left hand there is a temple: + And a palace on the right-hand side. + Foot-passengers in scarlet + Pass over the glittering tide. + + Under the bridge + The old river flows + Low and monotonous + Day after day. + + I have heard and have seen + All the news that has been: + Autumn's gold and Spring's green! + + Now in my palace + I see foot-passengers + Crossing the river: + Pilgrims of Autumn + In the afternoons. + + Lotus pools: + Petals in the water. + Such are my dreams. + + For me silks are outspread. + I take my ease, unthinking. + + V + + And now the lowest pine-branch + Is drawn across the disk of the sun. + Old friends who will forget me soon + I must go on, + Towards those blue death-mountains + I have forgot so long. + + In the marsh grasses + There lies forever + My last treasure, + With the hope of my heart. + + The ice is glazing over, + Torn lanterns flutter, + On the leaves is snow. + + In the frosty evening + Toll the old bell for me + Once, in the sleepy temple. + + Perhaps my soul will hear. + + Afterglow: + Before the stars peep + I shall creep out into darkness. + + +LONDON EXCURSION + + 'BUS + + Great walls of green, + City that is afar. + + We gallop along + Alert and penetrating, + Roads open about us, + Housetops keep at a distance. + + Soft-curling tendrils, + Swim backwards from our image: + We are a red bulk, + Projecting the angular city, in shadows, at our feet. + + Black coarse-squared shapes, + Hump and growl and assemble. + It is the city that takes us to itself, + Vast thunder riding down strange skies. + + An arch under which we slide + Divides our lives for us: + After we have passed it + We know we have left something behind + We shall not see again. + + Passivity, + Gravity, + Are changed into hesitating, clanking pistons and wheels. + The trams come whooping up one by one, + Yellow pulse-beats spreading through darkness. + + Music-hall posters squall out: + The passengers shrink together, + I enter indelicately into all their souls. + + It is a glossy skating rink, + On which winged spirals clasp and bend each other: + And suddenly slide backwards towards the centre, + After a too-brief release. + + A second arch is a wall + To separate our souls from rotted cables + Of stale greenness. + + A shadow cutting off the country from us, + Out of it rise red walls. + + Yet I revolt: I bend, I twist myself + I curl into a million convolutions: + Pink shapes without angle, + Anything to be soft and woolly, + Anything to escape. + + Sudden lurch of clamours, + Two more viaducts + Stretch out red yokes of steel, + Crushing my rebellion. + + My soul + Shrieking + Is jolted forwards by a long hot bar-- + Into direct distances. + It pierces the small of my back. + + APPROACH + + Only this morning I sang of roses; + Now I see with a swift stare, + The city forcing up through the air + Black cubes close piled and some half-crumbling over. + + My roses are battered into pulp: + And there swells up in me + Sudden desire for something changeless, + Thrusts of sunless rock + Unmelted by hissing wheels. + + ARRIVAL + + Here is too swift a movement, + The rest is too still. + + It is a red sea + Licking + The housefronts. + + They quiver gently + From base to summit. + Ripples of impulse run through them, + Flattering resistance. + + Soon they will fall; + Already smoke yearns upward. + Clouds of dust, + Crash of collapsing cubes. + + I prefer deeper patience, + Monotony of stalled beasts. + O angle-builders, + Vainly have you prolonged your effort, + For I descend amid you, + Past rungs and slopes of curving slippery steel. + + WALK + + Sudden struggle for foothold on the pavement, + Familiar ascension. + + I do not heed the city any more, + It has given me a duty to perform. + I pass along nonchalantly, + Insinuating myself into self-baffling movements. + Impalpable charm of back streets + In which I find myself: + Cool spaces filled with shadow. + Passers-by, white hammocks in the sunlight. + + Bulging outcrush into old tumult; + Attainment, as of a narrow harbour, + Of some shop forgotten by traffic + With cool-corridored walls. + + 'BUS-TOP + + Black shapes bending, + Taxicabs crush in the crowd. + The tops are each a shining square + Shuttles that steadily press through woolly fabric. + + Drooping blossom, + Gas-standards over + Spray out jingling tumult + Of white-hot rays. + + Monotonous domes of bowler-hats + Vibrate in the heat. + + Silently, easily we sway through braying traffic, + Down the crowded street. + The tumult crouches over us, + Or suddenly drifts to one side. + + TRANSPOSITION + + I am blown like a leaf + Hither and thither. + The city about me + Resolves itself into sound of many voices, + Rustling and fluttering, + Leaves shaken by the breeze. + + A million forces ignore me, I know not why, + I am drunken with it all. + Suddenly I feel an immense will + Stored up hitherto and unconscious till this instant. + Projecting my body + Across a street, in the face of all its traffic. + + I dart and dash: + I do not know why I go. + These people watch me, + I yield them my adventure. + + Lazily I lounge through labyrinthine corridors, + And with eyes suddenly altered, + I peer into an office I do not know, + And wonder at a startled face that penetrates my own. + + Roses--pavement-- + I will take all this city away with me-- + People--uproar--the pavement jostling and flickering-- + Women with incredible eyelids: + Dandies in spats: + Hard-faced throng discussing me--I know them all. + I will take them away with me, + I insistently rob them of their essence, + I must have it all before night, + To sing amid my green. + + I glide out unobservant + In the midst of the traffic + Blown like a leaf + Hither and thither, + Till the city resolves itself into a clamour of voices, + Crying hollowly, like the wind rustling through the forest, + Against the frozen housefronts: + Lost in the glitter of a million movements. + + PERIPETEIA + + I can no longer find a place for myself: + I go. + + There are too many things to detain me, + But the force behind is reckless. + + Noise, uproar, movement + Slide me outwards, + Black sleet shivering + Down red walls. + + In thick jungles of green, this gyration, + My centrifugal folly, + Through roaring dust and futility spattered, + Will find its own repose. + + Golden lights will gleam out sullenly into silence, + Before I return. + + MID-FLIGHT + + We rush, a black throng, + Straight upon darkness: + Motes scattered + By the arc's rays. + + Over the bridge fluttering, + It is theatre-time, + No one heeds. + + Lost amid greenness + We will sleep all night; + And in the morning + Coming forth, we will shake wet wings + Over the settled dust of to-day. + + The city hurls its cobbled streets after us, + To drive us faster. + + We must attain the night + Before endless processions + Of lamps + Push us back. + A clock with quivering hands + Leaps to the trajectory-angle of our departure. + + We leave behind pale traces of achievement: + Fires that we kindled but were too tired to put out, + Broad gold fans brushing softly over dark walls, + Stifled uproar of night. + + We are already cast forth: + The signal of our departure + Jerks down before we have learned we are to go. + + STATION + + We descend + Into a wall of green. + Straggling shapes: + Afterwards none are seen. + + I find myself + Alone. + I look back: + The city has grown. + + One grey wall + Windowed, unlit. + Heavily, night + Crushes the face of it. + + I go on. + My memories freeze + Like birds' cry + In hollow trees. + + I go on. + Up and outright + To the hostility + Of night. + + + + +F. S. FLINT + + + +F. S. FLINT + + +TREES + + Elm trees + and the leaf the boy in me hated + long ago-- + rough and sandy. + + Poplars + and their leaves, + tender, smooth to the fingers, + and a secret in their smell + I have forgotten. + + Oaks + and forest glades, + heart aching with wonder, fear: + their bitter mast. + + Willows + and the scented beetle + we put in our handkerchiefs; + and the roots of one + that spread into a river: + nakedness, water and joy. + + Hawthorn, + white and odorous with blossom, + framing the quiet fields, + and swaying flowers and grasses, + and the hum of bees. + + Oh, these are the things that are with me now, + in the town; + and I am grateful + for this minute of my manhood. + + +LUNCH + + Frail beauty, + green, gold and incandescent whiteness, + narcissi, daffodils, + you have brought me Spring and longing, + wistfulness, + in your irradiance. + + Therefore, I sit here + among the people, + dreaming, + and my heart aches + with all the hawthorn blossom, + the bees humming, + the light wind upon the poplars, + and your warmth and your love + and your eyes ... + they smile and know me. + + +MALADY + + I move; + perhaps I have wakened; + this is a bed; + this is a room; + and there is light.... + + Darkness! + + Have I performed + the dozen acts or so + that make me the man + men see? + + The door opens, + and on the landing-- + quiet! + I can see nothing: the pain, the weariness! + + Stairs, banisters, a handrail: + all indistinguishable. + One step farther down or up, + and why? + But up is harder. Down! + Down to this white blur; + it gives before me. + + Me? + + I extend all ways: + I fit into the walls and they pull me. + + Light? + + Light! I know it is light. + + Stillness, and then, + something moves: + green, oh green, dazzling lightning! + And joy! this is my room; + there are my books, there the piano, + there the last bar I wrote, + there the last line, + and oh the sunlight! + + A parrot screeches. + + +ACCIDENT + + Dear one! + you sit there + in the corner of the carriage; + and you do not know me; + and your eyes forbid. + + Is it the dirt, the squalor, + the wear of human bodies, + and the dead faces of our neighbours? + These are but symbols. + + You are proud; I praise you; + your mouth is set; you see beyond us; + and you see nothing. + + I have the vision of your calm, cold face, + and of the black hair that waves above it; + I watch you; I love you; + I desire you. + + There is a quiet here + within the thud-thud of the wheels + upon the railway. + + There is a quiet here + within my heart, + but tense and tender.... + + This is my station.... + + +FRAGMENT + + ... That night I loved you + in the candlelight. + Your golden hair + strewed the sweet whiteness of the pillows + and the counterpane. + O the darkness of the corners, + the warm air, and the stars + framed in the casement of the ships' lights! + The waves lapped into the harbour; + the boats creaked; + a man's voice sang out on the quay; + and you loved me. + In your love were the tall tree fuchsias, + the blue of the hortensias, the scarlet nasturtiums, + the trees on the hills, + the roads we had covered, + and the sea that had borne your body + before the rocks of Hartland. + You loved me with these + and with the kindness of people, + country folk, sailors and fishermen, + and the old lady who had lodged us and supped us. + You loved me with yourself + that was these and more, + changed as the earth is changed + into the bloom of flowers. + + +HOUSES + + Evening and quiet: + a bird trills in the poplar trees + behind the house with the dark green door + across the road. + + Into the sky, + the red earthenware and the galvanised iron chimneys + thrust their cowls. + The hoot of the steamers on the Thames is plain. + + No wind; + the trees merge, green with green; + a car whirs by; + footsteps and voices take their pitch + in the key of dusk, + far-off and near, subdued. + + Solid and square to the world + the houses stand, + their windows blocked with venetian blinds. + + Nothing will move them. + + +EAU-FORTE + + On black bare trees a stale cream moon + hangs dead, and sours the unborn buds. + + Two gaunt old hacks, knees bent, heads low, + tug, tired and spent, an old horse tram. + + Damp smoke, rank mist fill the dark square; + and round the bend six bullocks come. + + A hobbling, dirt-grimed drover guides + their clattering feet to death and shame. + + + + +D. H. LAWRENCE + + + +D. H. LAWRENCE + + +BALLAD OF ANOTHER OPHELIA + + Oh, the green glimmer of apples in the orchard, + Lamps in a wash of rain, + Oh, the wet walk of my brown hen through the stackyard, + Oh, tears on the window pane! + + Nothing now will ripen the bright green apples, + Full of disappointment and of rain, + Brackish they will taste, of tears, when the yellow dapples + Of Autumn tell the withered tale again. + + All round the yard it is cluck, my brown hen, + Cluck, and the rain-wet wings, + Cluck, my marigold bird, and again + Cluck for your yellow darlings. + + For the grey rat found the gold thirteen + Huddled away in the dark, + Flutter for a moment, oh the beast is quick and keen, + Extinct one yellow-fluffy spark. + + * * * * * * + + Once I had a lover bright like running water, + Once his face was laughing like the sky; + Open like the sky looking down in all its laughter + On the buttercups--and buttercups was I. + + What then is there hidden in the skirts of all the blossom, + What is peeping from your wings, oh mother hen? + 'T is the sun who asks the question, in a lovely haste for wisdom-- + What a lovely haste for wisdom is in men? + + Yea, but it is cruel when undressed is all the blossom, + And her shift is lying white upon the floor, + That a grey one, like a shadow, like a rat, a thief, a rain-storm + Creeps upon her then and gathers in his store. + + Oh, the grey garner that is full of half-grown apples, + Oh, the golden sparkles laid extinct--! + And oh, behind the cloud sheaves, like yellow autumn dapples, + Did you see the wicked sun that winked? + + +ILLICIT + + In front of the sombre mountains, a faint, lost ribbon of rainbow, + And between us and it, the thunder; + And down below, in the green wheat, the labourers + Stand like dark stumps, still in the green wheat. + + You are near to me, and your naked feet in their sandals, + And through the scent of the balcony's naked timber + I distinguish the scent of your hair; so now the limber + Lightning falls from heaven. + + Adown the pale-green, glacier-river floats + A dark boat through the gloom--and whither? + The thunder roars. But still we have each other. + The naked lightnings in the heaven dither + And disappear. What have we but each other? + The boat has gone. + + +FIREFLIES IN THE CORN + + _A Woman taunts her Lover_ + Look at the little darlings in the corn! + The rye is taller than you, who think yourself + So high and mighty: look how its heads are borne + Dark and proud in the sky, like a number of knights + Passing with spears and pennants and manly scorn. + + And always likely!--Oh, if I could ride + With my head held high-serene against the sky + Do you think I'd have a creature like you at my side + With your gloom and your doubt that you love me? O darling rye, + How I adore you for your simple pride! + + And those bright fireflies wafting in between + And over the swaying cornstalks, just above + All their dark-feathered helmets, like little green + Stars come low and wandering here for love + Of this dark earth, and wandering all serene--! + + How I adore you, you happy things, you dears + Riding the air and carrying all the time + Your little lanterns behind you: it cheers + My heart to see you settling and trying to climb + The cornstalks, tipping with fire their spears. + + All over the corn's dim motion, against the blue + Dark sky of night, the wandering glitter, the swarm + Of questing brilliant things:--you joy, you true + Spirit of careless joy: ah, how I warm + My poor and perished soul at the joy of you! + + _The Man answers and she mocks_ + You're a fool, woman. I love you and you know I do! + --Lord, take his love away, it makes him whine. + And I give you everything that you want me to. + --Lord, dear Lord, do you think he ever _can_ shine? + + +A WOMAN AND HER DEAD HUSBAND + + Ah, stern cold man, + How can you lie so relentless hard + While I wash you with weeping water! + Ah, face, carved hard and cold, + You have been like this, on your guard + Against me, since death began. + + You masquerader! + How can you shame to act this part + Of unswerving indifference to me? + It is not you; why disguise yourself + Against me, to break my heart, + You evader? + + You've a warm mouth, + A good warm mouth always sooner to soften + Even than your sudden eyes. + Ah cruel, to keep your mouth + Relentless, however often + I kiss it in drouth. + + You are not he. + Who are you, lying in his place on the bed + And rigid and indifferent to me? + His mouth, though he laughed or sulked + Was always warm and red + And good to me. + + And his eyes could see + The white moon hang like a breast revealed + By the slipping shawl of stars, + Could see the small stars tremble + As the heart beneath did wield + Systole, diastole. + + And he showed it me + So, when he made his love to me; + And his brows like rocks on the sea jut out, + And his eyes were deep like the sea + With shadow, and he looked at me, + Till I sank in him like the sea, + Awfully. + + Oh, he was multiform-- + Which then was he among the manifold? + The gay, the sorrowful, the seer? + I have loved a rich race of men in one-- + --But not this, this never-warm + Metal-cold--! + + Ah, masquerader! + With your steel face white-enamelled + Were you he, after all, and I never + Saw you or felt you in kissing? + --Yet sometimes my heart was trammelled + With fear, evader! + + You will not stir, + Nor hear me, not a sound. + --Then it was you-- + And all this time you were + Like this when I lived with you. + It is not true, + I am frightened, I am frightened of you + And of everything. + O God!--God too + Has deceived me in everything, + In everything. + + +THE MOWERS + + There's four men mowing down by the river; + I can hear the sound of the scythe strokes, four + Sharp breaths swishing:--yea, but I + Am sorry for what's i' store. + + The first man out o' the four that's mowin' + Is mine: I mun claim him once for all: + --But I'm sorry for him, on his young feet, knowin' + None o' the trouble he's led to stall. + + As he sees me bringin' the dinner, he lifts + His head as proud as a deer that looks + Shoulder-deep out o' th' corn: and wipes + His scythe blade bright, unhooks + + His scythe stone, an' over the grass to me! + --Lad, tha 's gotten a chilt in me, + An' a man an' a father tha 'lt ha'e to be, + My young slim lad, an' I'm sorry for thee. + + +SCENT OF IRISES + + A faint, sickening scent of irises + Persists all morning. Here in a jar on the table + A fine proud spike of purple irises + Rising above the class-room litter, makes me unable + To see the class's lifted and bended faces + Save in a broken pattern, amid purple and gold and sable. + + I can smell the gorgeous bog-end, in its breathless + Dazzle of may-blobs, when the marigold glare overcast + You with fire on your brow and your cheeks and your chin as you dipped + Your face in your marigold bunch, to touch and contrast + Your own dark mouth with the bridal faint lady-smocks + Dissolved in the golden sorcery you should not outlast. + + You amid the bog-end's yellow incantation, + You sitting in the cowslips of the meadows above, + --Me, your shadow on the bog-flame, flowery may-blobs, + Me full length in the cowslips, muttering you love-- + You, your soul like a lady-smock, lost, evanescent, + You, with your face all rich, like the sheen on a dove--! + + You are always asking, do I remember, remember + The buttercup bog-end where the flowers rose up + And kindled you over deep with a coat of gold? + You ask again, do the healing days close up + The open darkness which then drew us in, + The dark that swallows all, and nought throws up. + + You upon the dry, dead beech-leaves, in the fire of night + Burnt like a sacrifice;--you invisible-- + Only the fire of darkness, and the scent of you! + --And yes, thank God, it still is possible + The healing days shall close the darkness up + Wherein I breathed you like a smoke or dew. + + Like vapour, dew, or poison. Now, thank God, + The golden fire has gone, and your face is ash + Indistinguishable in the grey, chill day, + The night has burnt you out, at last the good + Dark fire burns on untroubled without clash + Of you upon the dead leaves saying me yea. + + +GREEN + + The sky was apple-green, + The sky was green wine held up in the sun, + The moon was a golden petal between. + + She opened her eyes, and green + They shone, clear like flowers undone, + For the first time, now for the first time seen. + + + + +AMY LOWELL + + + +AMY LOWELL + + +VENUS TRANSIENS + + Tell me, + Was Venus more beautiful + Than you are, + When she topped + The crinkled waves, + Drifting shoreward + On her plaited shell? + Was Botticelli's vision + Fairer than mine; + And were the painted rosebuds + He tossed his lady, + Of better worth + Than the words I blow about you + To cover your too great loveliness + As with a gauze + Of misted silver? + + For me, + You stand poised + In the blue and buoyant air, + Cinctured by bright winds, + Treading the sunlight. + And the waves which precede you + Ripple and stir + The sands at my feet. + + +THE TRAVELLING BEAR + + Grass-blades push up between the cobblestones + And catch the sun on their flat sides + Shooting it back, + Gold and emerald, + Into the eyes of passers-by. + + And over the cobblestones, + Square-footed and heavy, + Dances the trained bear. + Tho cobbles cut his feet, + And he has a ring in his nose + Which hurts him; + But still he dances, + For the keeper pricks him with a sharp stick, + Under his fur. + + Now the crowd gapes and chuckles, + And boys and young women shuffle their feet in time to the dancing bear. + They see him wobbling + Against a dust of emerald and gold, + And they are greatly delighted. + + The legs of the bear shake with fatigue + And his back aches, + And the shining grass-blades dazzle and confuse him. + But still he dances, + Because of the little, pointed stick. + + +THE LETTER + + Little cramped words scrawling all over the paper + Like draggled fly's legs, + What can you tell of the flaring moon + Through the oak leaves? + Or of my uncurtained window and the bare floor + Spattered with moonlight? + Your silly quirks and twists have nothing in them + Of blossoming hawthorns, + And this paper is dull, crisp, smooth, virgin of loveliness + Beneath my hand. + + I am tired, Beloved, of chafing my heart against + The want of you; + Of squeezing it into little inkdrops, + And posting it. + And I scald alone, here, under the fire + Of the great moon. + + +GROTESQUE + + Why do the lilies goggle their tongues at me + When I pluck them; + And writhe, and twist, + And strangle themselves against my fingers, + So that I can hardly weave the garland + For your hair? + Why do they shriek your name + And spit at me + When I would cluster them? + Must I kill them + To make them lie still, + And send you a wreath of lolling corpses + To turn putrid and soft + On your forehead + While you dance? + + +BULLION + + My thoughts + Chink against my ribs + And roll about like silver hail-stones. + I should like to spill them out, + And pour them, all shining, + Over you. + But my heart is shut upon them + And holds them straitly. + + Come, You! and open my heart; + That my thoughts torment me no longer, + But glitter in your hair. + + +SOLITAIRE + + When night drifts along the streets of the city, + And sifts down between the uneven roofs, + My mind begins to peek and peer. + It plays at ball in old, blue Chinese gardens, + And shakes wrought dice-cups in Pagan temples, + Amid the broken flutings of white pillars. + It dances with purple and yellow crocuses in its hair, + And its feet shine as they flutter over drenched grasses. + How light and laughing my mind is, + When all the good folk have put out their bed-room candles, + And the city is still! + + +THE BOMBARDMENT + +Slowly, without force, the rain drops into the city. It stops a moment on +the carved head of Saint John, then slides on again, slipping and +trickling over his stone cloak. It splashes from the lead conduit of a +gargoyle, and falls from it in turmoil on the stones in the Cathedral +square. Where are the people, and why does the fretted steeple sweep about +in the sky? Boom! The sound swings against the rain. Boom, again! After +it, only water rushing in the gutters, and the turmoil from the spout of +the gargoyle. Silence. Ripples and mutters. Boom! + +The room is damp, but warm. Little flashes swarm about from the firelight. +The lustres of the chandelier are bright, and clusters of rubies leap in +the bohemian glasses on the _étagère_. Her hands are restless, but the +white masses of her hair are quite still. Boom! Will it never cease to +torture, this iteration! Boom! The vibration shatters a glass on the +_étagère_. It lies there formless and glowing, with all its crimson gleams +shot out of pattern, spilled, flowing red, blood-red. A thin bell-note +pricks through the silence. A door creaks. The old lady speaks: "Victor, +clear away that broken glass." "Alas! Madame, the bohemian glass!" "Yes, +Victor, one hundred years ago my father brought it--" Boom! The room +shakes, the servitor quakes. Another goblet shivers and breaks. Boom! + +It rustles at the window-pane, the smooth, streaming rain, and he is shut +within its clash and murmur. Inside is his candle, his table, his ink, his +pen, and his dreams. He is thinking, and the walls are pierced with beams +of sunshine, slipping through young green. A fountain tosses itself up at +the blue sky, and through the spattered water in the basin he can see +copper carp, lazily floating among cold leaves. A wind-harp in a +cedar-tree grieves and whispers, and words blow into his brain, bubbled, +iridescent, shooting up like flowers of fire, higher and higher. Boom! The +flame-flowers snap on their slender stems. The fountain rears up in long +broken spears of disheveled water and flattens into the earth. Boom! And +there is only the room, the table, the candle, and the sliding rain. +Again, Boom!--Boom!--Boom! He stuffs his fingers into his ears. He sees +corpses, and cries out in fright. Boom! It is night, and they are shelling +the city! Boom! Boom! + +A child wakes and is afraid, and weeps in the darkness. What has made the +bed shake? "Mother, where are you? I am awake." "Hush, my Darling, I am +here." "But, Mother, something so queer happened, the room shook." Boom! +"Oh! What is it? What is the matter?" Boom! "Where is Father? I am so +afraid." Boom! The child sobs and shrieks. The house trembles and creaks. +Boom! + +Retorts, globes, tubes, and phials lie shattered. All his trials oozing +across the floor. The life that was his choosing, lonely, urgent, goaded +by a hope, all gone. A weary man in a ruined laboratory, that was his +story. Boom! Gloom and ignorance, and the jig of drunken brutes. Diseases +like snakes crawling over the earth, leaving trails of slime. Wails from +people burying their dead. Through the window he can see the rocking +steeple. A ball of fire falls on the lead of the roof, and the sky tears +apart on a spike of flame. Up the spire, behind the lacings of stone, +zig-zagging in and out of the carved tracings, squirms the fire. It spouts +like yellow wheat from the gargoyles, coils round the head of Saint John, +and aureoles him in light. It leaps into the night and hisses against the +rain. The Cathedral is a burning stain on the white, wet night. + +Boom! The Cathedral is a torch, and the houses next to it begin to scorch. +Boom! The bohemian glass on the _étagère_ is no longer there. Boom! A +stalk of flame sways against the red damask curtains. The old lady cannot +walk. She watches the creeping stalk and counts. Boom!--Boom!--Boom! + +The poet rushes into the street, and the rain wraps him in a sheet of +silver. But it is threaded with gold and powdered with scarlet beads. The +city burns. Quivering, spearing, thrusting, lapping, streaming, run the +flames. Over roofs, and walls, and shops, and stalls. Smearing its gold on +the sky the fire dances, lances itself through the doors, and lisps and +chuckles along the floors. + +The child wakes again and screams at the yellow petalled flower flickering +at the window. The little red lips of flame creep along the ceiling beams. + +The old man sits among his broken experiments and looks at the burning +Cathedral. Now the streets are swarming with people. They seek shelter and +crowd into the cellars. They shout and call, and over all, slowly and +without force, the rain drops into the city. Boom! And the steeple crashes +down among the people. Boom! Boom, again! The water rushes along the +gutters. The fire roars and mutters. Boom! + + +THE END + + + + +BIBLIOGRAPHY + + + +BIBLIOGRAPHY + + + JOHN GOULD FLETCHER + _Fire and Wine._ Grant Richards, Ltd., London, 1913. + _Fool's Gold._ Max Goschen, London, 1913. + _The Dominant City._ Max Goschen, London, 1913. + _The Book of Nature._ Constable & Co., London, 1913. + _Visions of the Evening._ Erskine McDonald, London, 1913. + _Irradiations: Sand and Spray._ Houghton Mifflin Company, Boston, 1914. + + + F. S. FLINT + _The Net of Stars._ Elkin Mathews, London, 1909. + + + D. H. LAWRENCE + _Love Poems and Others._ Duckworth & Co., London, 1913. + Prose: _The White Peacock._ William Heinemann, London, 1911. + _The Trespasser._ Duckworth & Co., London, 1912. + _Sons and Lovers._ Duckworth & Co., London, 1913. + Drama: _The Widowing of Mrs. Holroyd._ Mitchell Kennerley, New York, + 1914. + + + AMY LOWELL + _A Dome of Many-Coloured Glass._ Houghton Mifflin Company, Boston, + 1912. The Macmillan Company, New York, 1914. + _Sword Blades and Poppy Seed._ The Macmillan Company, New York; and + Macmillan & Co., London, 1914. + + + +The Riverside Press + +CAMBRIDGE . MASSACHUSETTS + +U . S . A + + + + + +End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Some Imagist Poets, by +Richard Aldington and H.D. and John Gould Fletcher and F.S. Flint and D.H. Lawrence and Amy Lowell + +*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 30276 *** |