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Sword Blades and Poppy Seed

Sword Blades

The Captured Goddess The Precinct. Rochester The Cyclists Sunshine through a Cobwebbed Window A London Thoroughfare. 2 A.M. Astigmatism The Coal Picker Storm-Racked Convalescence Patience Apology A Petition A Blockhead Stupidity Irony Happiness The Last Quarter of the Moon A Tale of Starvation The Foreigner Absence A Gift The Bungler Fool's Money Bags Miscast I Miscast II Anticipation Vintage The Tree of Scarlet Berries Obligation The Taxi The Giver of Stars The Temple Epitaph of a Young Poet Who Died Before Having Achieved Success In Answer to a Request

Poppy Seed

The Great Adventure of Max Breuck Sancta Maria, Succurre Miseris After Hearing a Waltz by Bartok Clear, with Light, Variable Winds The Basket In a Castle The Book of Hours of Sister Clotilde The Exeter Road The Shadow The Forsaken Late September The Pike The Blue Scarf White and Green Aubade Music A Lady In a Garden A Tulip Garden

Sword Blades And Poppy Seed

A drifting, April, twilight sky, A wind which blew the puddles dry, And slapped the river into waves That ran and hid among the staves Of an old wharf. A watery light Touched bleak the granite bridge, and white Without the slightest tinge of gold, The city shivered in the cold. All day my thoughts had lain as dead, Unborn and bursting in my head. From time to time I wrote a word Which lines and circles overscored. My table seemed a graveyard, full Of coffins waiting burial. I seized these vile abortions, tore Them into jagged bits, and swore To be the dupe of hope no more. Into the evening straight I went, Starved of a day's accomplishment. Unnoticing, I wandered where The city gave a space for air, And on the bridge's parapet I leant, while pallidly there set A dim, discouraged, worn-out sun. Behind me, where the tramways run, Blossomed bright lights, I turned to leave, When someone plucked me by the sleeve. "Your pardon, Sir, but I should be Most grateful could you lend to me A carfare, I have lost my purse." The voice was clear, concise, and terse. I turned and met the quiet gaze Of strange eyes flashing through the haze.

The man was old and slightly bent, Under his cloak some instrument Disarranged its stately line, He rested on his cane a fine And nervous hand, an almandine Smouldered with dull-red flames, sanguine It burned in twisted gold, upon His finger. Like some Spanish don, Conferring favours even when Asking an alms, he bowed again And waited. But my pockets proved Empty, in vain I poked and shoved, No hidden penny lurking there Greeted my search. "Sir, I declare I have no money, pray forgive, But let me take you where you live." And so we plodded through the mire Where street lamps cast a wavering fire. I took no note of where we went, His talk became the element Wherein my being swam, content. It flashed like rapiers in the night Lit by uncertain candle-light, When on some moon-forsaken sward A quarrel dies upon a sword. It hacked and carved like a cutlass blade, And the noise in the air the broad words made Was the cry of the wind at a window-pane On an Autumn night of sobbing rain. Then it would run like a steady stream Under pinnacled bridges where minarets gleam, Or lap the air like the lapping tide Where a marble staircase lifts its wide Green-spotted steps to a garden gate, And a waning moon is sinking straight Down to a black and ominous sea, While a nightingale sings in a lemon tree.

I walked as though some opiate Had stung and dulled my brain, a state Acute and slumbrous. It grew late. We stopped, a house stood silent, dark. The old man scratched a match, the spark Lit up the keyhole of a door, We entered straight upon a floor White with finest powdered sand Carefully sifted, one might stand Muddy and dripping, and yet no trace Would stain the boards of this kitchen-place. From the chimney, red eyes sparked the gloom, And a cricket's chirp filled all the room. My host threw pine-cones on the fire And crimson and scarlet glowed the pyre Wrapped in the golden flame's desire. The chamber opened like an eye, As a half-melted cloud in a Summer sky The soul of the house stood guessed, and shy It peered at the stranger warily. A little shop with its various ware Spread on shelves with nicest care. Pitchers, and jars, and jugs, and pots, Pipkins, and mugs, and many lots Of lacquered canisters, black and gold, Like those in which Chinese tea is sold. Chests, and puncheons, kegs, and flasks, Goblets, chalices, firkins, and casks. In a corner three ancient amphorae leaned Against the wall, like ships careened. There was dusky blue of Wedgewood ware, The carved, white figures fluttering there Like leaves adrift upon the air. Classic in touch, but emasculate, The Greek soul grown effeminate. The factory of Sevres had lent Elegant boxes with ornament Culled from gardens where fountains splashed And golden carp in the shadows flashed, Nuzzling for crumbs under lily-pads, Which ladies threw as the last of fads. Eggshell trays where gay beaux knelt, Hand on heart, and daintily spelt Their love in flowers, brittle and bright, Artificial and fragile, which told aright The vows of an eighteenth-century knight. The cruder tones of old Dutch jugs Glared from one shelf, where Toby mugs Endlessly drank the foaming ale, Its froth grown dusty, awaiting sale. The glancing light of the burning wood Played over a group of jars which stood On a distant shelf, it seemed the sky Had lent the half-tones of his blazonry To paint these porcelains with unknown hues Of reds dyed purple and greens turned blues, Of lustres with so evanescent a sheen Their colours are felt, but never seen. Strange winged dragons writhe about These vases, poisoned venoms spout, Impregnate with old Chinese charms; Sealed urns containing mortal harms, They fill the mind with thoughts impure, Pestilent drippings from the ure Of vicious thinkings. "Ah, I see," Said I, "you deal in pottery." The old man turned and looked at me. Shook his head gently. "No," said he.

Then from under his cloak he took the thing Which I had wondered to see him bring Guarded so carefully from sight. As he laid it down it flashed in the light, A Toledo blade, with basket hilt, Damascened with arabesques of gilt, Or rather gold, and tempered so It could cut a floating thread at a blow. The old man smiled, "It has no sheath, 'Twas a little careless to have it beneath My cloak, for a jostle to my arm Would have resulted in serious harm. But it was so fine, I could not wait, So I brought it with me despite its state." "An amateur of arms," I thought, "Bringing home a prize which he has bought." "You care for this sort of thing, Dear Sir?" "Not in the way which you infer. I need them in business, that is all." And he pointed his finger at the wall. Then I saw what I had not noticed before. The walls were hung with at least five score Of swords and daggers of every size Which nations of militant men could devise. Poisoned spears from tropic seas, That natives, under banana trees, Smear with the juice of some deadly snake. Blood-dipped arrows, which savages make And tip with feathers, orange and green, A quivering death, in harlequin sheen. High up, a fan of glancing steel Was formed of claymores in a wheel. Jewelled swords worn at kings' levees Were suspended next midshipmen's dirks, and these Elbowed stilettos come from Spain, Chased with some splendid Hidalgo's name. There were Samurai swords from old Japan, And scimitars from Hindoostan, While the blade of a Turkish yataghan Made a waving streak of vitreous white Upon the wall, in the firelight. Foils with buttons broken or lost Lay heaped on a chair, among them tossed The boarding-pike of a privateer. Against the chimney leaned a queer Two-handed weapon, with edges dull As though from hacking on a skull. The rusted blood corroded it still. My host took up a paper spill From a heap which lay in an earthen bowl, And lighted it at a burning coal. At either end of the table, tall Wax candles were placed, each in a small, And slim, and burnished candlestick Of pewter. The old man lit each wick, And the room leapt more obviously Upon my mind, and I could see What the flickering fire had hid from me. Above the chimney's yawning throat, Shoulder high, like the dark wainscote, Was a mantelshelf of polished oak Blackened with the pungent smoke Of firelit nights; a Cromwell clock Of tarnished brass stood like a rock In the midst of a heaving, turbulent sea Of every sort of cutlery. There lay knives sharpened to any use, The keenest lancet, and the obtuse And blunted pruning bill-hook; blades Of razors, scalpels, shears; cascades Of penknives, with handles of mother-of-pearl, And scythes, and sickles, and scissors; a whirl Of points and edges, and underneath Shot the gleam of a saw with bristling teeth. My head grew dizzy, I seemed to hear A battle-cry from somewhere near, The clash of arms, and the squeal of balls, And the echoless thud when a dead man falls. A smoky cloud had veiled the room, Shot through with lurid glares; the gloom Pounded with shouts and dying groans, With the drip of blood on cold, hard stones. Sabres and lances in streaks of light Gleamed through the smoke, and at my right A creese, like a licking serpent's tongue, Glittered an instant, while it stung. Streams, and points, and lines of fire! The livid steel, which man's desire Had forged and welded, burned white and cold. Every blade which man could mould, Which could cut, or slash, or cleave, or rip, Or pierce, or thrust, or carve, or strip, Or gash, or chop, or puncture, or tear, Or slice, or hack, they all were there. Nerveless and shaking, round and round, I stared at the walls and at the ground, Till the room spun like a whipping top, And a stern voice in my ear said, "Stop! I sell no tools for murderers here. Of what are you thinking! Please clear Your mind of such imaginings. Sit down. I will tell you of these things."

SWORD BLADES

The Captured Goddess

Over the housetops, Above the rotating chimney-pots, I have seen a shiver of amethyst, And blue and cinnamon have flickered A moment, At the far end of a dusty street.

Through sheeted rain Has come a lustre of crimson, And I have watched moonbeams Hushed by a film of palest green.

It was her wings, Goddess! Who stepped over the clouds, And laid her rainbow feathers Aslant on the currents of the air.

I followed her for long, With gazing eyes and stumbling feet. I cared not where she led me, My eyes were full of colours: Saffrons, rubies, the yellows of beryls, And the indigo-blue of quartz; Flights of rose, layers of chrysoprase, Points of orange, spirals of vermilion, The spotted gold of tiger-lily petals, The loud pink of bursting hydrangeas. I followed, And watched for the flashing of her wings.

In the city I found her, The narrow-streeted city. In the market-place I came upon her, Bound and trembling. Her fluted wings were fastened to her sides with cords, She was naked and cold, For that day the wind blew Without sunshine.

Men chaffered for her, They bargained in silver and gold, In copper, in wheat, And called their bids across the market-place.

The Goddess wept.

Hiding my face I fled, And the grey wind hissed behind me, Along the narrow streets.

The Precinct. Rochester

The tall yellow hollyhocks stand, Still and straight, With their round blossoms spread open, In the quiet sunshine. And still is the old Roman wall, Rough with jagged bits of flint, And jutting stones, Old and cragged, Quite still in its antiquity. The pear-trees press their branches against it, And feeling it warm and kindly, The little pears ripen to yellow and red. They hang heavy, bursting with juice, Against the wall. So old, so still!

The sky is still. The clouds make no sound As they slide away Beyond the Cathedral Tower, To the river, And the sea. It is very quiet, Very sunny. The myrtle flowers stretch themselves in the sunshine, But make no sound. The roses push their little tendrils up, And climb higher and higher. In spots they have climbed over the wall. But they are very still, They do not seem to move. And the old wall carries them Without effort, and quietly Ripens and shields the vines and blossoms.

A bird in a plane-tree Sings a few notes, Cadenced and perfect They weave into the silence. The Cathedral bell knocks, One, two, three, and again, And then again. It is a quiet sound, Calling to prayer, Hardly scattering the stillness, Only making it close in more densely. The gardener picks ripe gooseberries For the Dean's supper to-night. It is very quiet, Very regulated and mellow. But the wall is old, It has known many days. It is a Roman wall, Left-over and forgotten.

Beyond the Cathedral Close Yelp and mutter the discontents of people not mellow, Not well-regulated. People who care more for bread than for beauty, Who would break the tombs of saints, And give the painted windows of churches To their children for toys. People who say: "They are dead, we live! The world is for the living."

Fools! It is always the dead who breed. Crush the ripe fruit, and cast it aside, Yet its seeds shall fructify, And trees rise where your huts were standing. But the little people are ignorant, They chaffer, and swarm. They gnaw like rats, And the foundations of the Cathedral are honeycombed.

The Cyclists

Spread on the roadway, With open-blown jackets, Like black, soaring pinions, They swoop down the hillside, The Cyclists.

Seeming dark-plumaged Birds, after carrion, Careening and circling, Over the dying Of England.

She lies with her bosom Beneath them, no longer The Dominant Mother, The Virile--but rotting Before time.

The smell of her, tainted, Has bitten their nostrils. Exultant they hover, And shadow the sun with Foreboding.

Sunshine through a Cobwebbed Window

What charm is yours, you faded old-world tapestries, Of outworn, childish mysteries, Vague pageants woven on a web of dream! And we, pushing and fighting in the turbid stream Of modern life, find solace in your tarnished broideries.

Old lichened halls, sun-shaded by huge cedar-trees, The layered branches horizontal stretched, like Japanese Dark-banded prints. Carven cathedrals, on a sky Of faintest colour, where the gothic spires fly And sway like masts, against a shifting breeze.

Worm-eaten pages, clasped in old brown vellum, shrunk From over-handling, by some anxious monk. Or Virgin's Hours, bright with gold and graven With flowers, and rare birds, and all the Saints of Heaven, And Noah's ark stuck on Ararat, when all the world had sunk.

A London Thoroughfare. 2 A.M.

They have watered the street, It shines in the glare of lamps, Cold, white lamps, And lies Like a slow-moving river, Barred with silver and black. Cabs go down it, One, And then another. Between them I hear the shuffling of feet. Tramps doze on the window-ledges, Night-walkers pass along the sidewalks. The city is squalid and sinister, With the silver-barred street in the midst, Slow-moving, A river leading nowhere.

Opposite my window, The moon cuts, Clear and round, Through the plum-coloured night. She cannot light the city; It is too bright. It has white lamps, And glitters coldly.

I stand in the window and watch the moon. She is thin and lustreless, But I love her. I know the moon, And this is an alien city.

Astigmatism

To Ezra Pound

With much friendship and admiration and some differences of opinion

The Poet took his walking-stick Of fine and polished ebony. Set in the close-grained wood Were quaint devices; Patterns in ambers, And in the clouded green of jades. The top was of smooth, yellow ivory, And a tassel of tarnished gold Hung by a faded cord from a hole Pierced in the hard wood, Circled with silver. For years the Poet had wrought upon this cane. His wealth had gone to enrich it, His experiences to pattern it, His labour to fashion and burnish it. To him it was perfect, A work of art and a weapon, A delight and a defence. The Poet took his walking-stick And walked abroad.

Peace be with you, Brother.

The Poet came to a meadow. Sifted through the grass were daisies, Open-mouthed, wondering, they gazed at the sun. The Poet struck them with his cane. The little heads flew off, and they lay Dying, open-mouthed and wondering, On the hard ground. "They are useless. They are not roses," said the Poet.

Peace be with you, Brother. Go your ways.

The Poet came to a stream. Purple and blue flags waded in the water; In among them hopped the speckled frogs; The wind slid through them, rustling. The Poet lifted his cane, And the iris heads fell into the water. They floated away, torn and drowning. "Wretched flowers," said the Poet, "They are not roses."

Peace be with you, Brother. It is your affair.

The Poet came to a garden. Dahlias ripened against a wall, Gillyflowers stood up bravely for all their short stature, And a trumpet-vine covered an arbour With the red and gold of its blossoms. Red and gold like the brass notes of trumpets. The Poet knocked off the stiff heads of the dahlias, And his cane lopped the gillyflowers at the ground. Then he severed the trumpet-blossoms from their stems. Red and gold they lay scattered, Red and gold, as on a battle field; Red and gold, prone and dying. "They were not roses," said the Poet.

Peace be with you, Brother. But behind you is destruction, and waste places.

The Poet came home at evening, And in the candle-light He wiped and polished his cane. The orange candle flame leaped in the yellow ambers, And made the jades undulate like green pools. It played along the bright ebony, And glowed in the top of cream-coloured ivory. But these things were dead, Only the candle-light made them seem to move. "It is a pity there were no roses," said the Poet.

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