The avenues are fading and sounds drift from afar.
Whose tomb shall we discover
in the dun shade of the woods
at the end of the fading avenues?
VISTA
A clatter of geese
fantastically waddling
over the jade silk lawn.
Behind them dark trees
genii clad in a green smoke
of leaves.
Under the trees,
warm and silent,
the mysterious, placid colours
of rhododendrons burn,
faintly,
electric blossoms,
like calm, pale,
subaqueous coral, … anemones.
Beyond,
stretching into sightless, unknown regions,
up the slope of a summitless hill,
a vista of low, contorted trees,
under a lavender sky.
What secret is hidden
at the end of the avenue?
A temple?
An iron gate?
A fragrant wilderness with briars?
ROMAN GHOSTS
THE trumpet’s echo
stirs the vast
shining plain of the shore.
The noisy sun
clashes its swords
on the horsemen’s armour
that ride here to dip
their misty, snorting steeds
in the sharp brink of the sea.
A metal-clattering cavalcade
advances
across the beach
where shallow pools
mirror the sky.
The ostrich feathers
of the waves
that flap against the shore
mimic the plumes
that wave from the helmets
of the Roman ghosts
who ride across the sand
to vanish in the mist.
SUMMER’S ECHO
COLD is the day,
colder than fires of water,
colder than ashes of a forgotten moon.
In the dark room under the tower
the shutters flap in the draught.
The hollyhocks hang broken.
Empty
void in space a sound (trickling
through colossal stretches
of arid air) intimating
some tremendous music
beyond our consciousness.
Some white figure with long hair
walks through the mist
sighing and stirring the branches
of sleep, walks through the room
raising the dust from the stones
of the cold-paved floor.
RAIN CLOUDS
The garden is cold.
Winds stir
over the green hollow of the lawn.
Faded roses
tumble delicately over the old brick wall.
Marigolds burn
on the margin of the green.
Here is colour,
but behind the darkling trees
clouds rear,
dark and ominous, rain-burdened,
like shreds of an old dream
which tumbles out of its chilly case
when the door of the mind
is opened by memory.
PRISON
It is dark and stifling within this cupboard.
I cannot open the door.
In the faint light I see a Chinese mask
That glares down upon me
From one high corner.
When I move, the walls move.
They follow my movements like the moon.
Like the unfolding of a rose,
Within no prefixed hour, a window opens.
In the clear air outside I see the plain
Rushing to join the distant sky.
Over the sun-scorched grass of the plain
Red-robed riders pass on tall horses.
The window closes.
I hear a gramophone.
If I put out my hand in the darkness
I know that my trembling fingers will meet
If I open my eyes again
I know that my eyes will always see
The Chinese mask or the vague window.
If I move my body from this spot
I know that the walls will follow me,
Moving always like walls in a mirror.
TRANSFORMATION SCENE
THE fire-lit room fills itself with shadows,
And with indistinct wall-paper,
And with a bowl of chrysanthemums,
Freshly gathered from the wet garden.
On the oak sideboard are oranges,
And a book with a bright cover.
A web descends upon the room,
Woven of aerial texture:
A veil of semibreves and minims,
A melody pensive – now plaintive,
A nuance of subtle colourings.
We will dance a slow pavane
down a dark alley of cypresses.
We will let our brocades trail through the dewy grass.
We will let laughter and low lute-notes float across the lake.
In this antique but newly discovered paradise
we shall meet apes and parrots.
The light shall be subdued.
We shall suspend our dream-balloons
by silken threads on the cold, sweet air.
As we glide lightly through the willow’s foliage,
fixing our eyes on some white statue through the leaves,
we shall discover that the oranges on these branches
are only oranges on the sideboard.
We slide back into the warm room.
The bright web fades …
The fire crackles and I see its light
Glittering on the firm flesh of your hand.
THE BRIDGE
Under the cruel and steely water
Lie the soft, white bodies of the suicides.
Their hair is green river-weed.
Bright pebbles are their eyes.
Strange lilies grow out of their breasts,
And through the long-nailed fingers
Glide the silver-shining minnows.
Slowly the decaying moon
Slides up behind the shadowy palaces.
Soft flame-red is her puppet’s face,
And soaked with the sins of the City.
As she climbs painfully through the darkness
Her light falls across the water of the river,
And makes thereon a hard, bright bridge of beaten copper.
The tall, powdered courtesans
Come out from the wicked City
With crimson ribbons floating from the shadows of their hair,
And above the river where the suicides lie
They strut to and fro across the copper bridge,
Holding hard iron roses in their hands
With wooden leaves.
PSYCHOLOGICAL FRAGMENT
INDEFINITE horror …
O unquiet water
you cannot be calm.
The volcano that stands
in the ultimate desert
is your fullest expression.
(Arabia, shadowy, veiled,
silent, yet singing).
That urge of faint terror
in unquiet water
is your confession.
For hark! as it falls
the yellow water mingles with the sky
and rocks are opened suddenly
in the dark solitudes
and blossoms strange
wander vaguely into sight
and unknown words
form in the air.
The air (pale, secret as flowers),
is as green as the sea
and as blue as the soul
which is filled with indefinite horror
O words which form in the air,
free me from this subtle terror!
EXHAUSTION
THE hall is darkening.
New possibilities stir in the dusk.
New hills rise behind the newspaper.
Withered poppies descend the stairs.
When will the noises in the street
Break down these walls?
At night the street-lamps send long tentacles
Which slide through the dusty window-panes,
Pulling off the withered petals
Of the poppies which perpetually descend the stairs.
SEASIDE TRAGEDY
‘A Verdict of Suicide while of unsound mind was returned at the Inquest on Mrs X, a widow, at Bournemouth today. Mrs X was the Proprietress of a Boarding-house, and it was stated at the Inquest that financial and other troubles had been weighing on her mind for some time.’
– Daily Paper.
‘LONG, long ago it was remembered
on the seashore
(by one of those who find it possible to remember),
it was remembered that
black is never white
and that the snow
and at once become part of the sea;
and that a door will open
and let fall upon the linoleum
a square of light,
white against the black of the shadow.
So how can one remember clearly?
It has become impossible to distinguish
between the sea and linoleum.
I will think of black and white
until I see them mingle in the sea
and intertwine and die.
Candles must rise out of the waves
heralding the birth of a new sunrise.
Across the waters pass the feet
of one, of five, of nine: –
How the light is white!
And how the green is in the sea!
And how it falls!’
‘Let us exploit a vegetarian activity.
Let us resolve the chords of the barrel-organ
playing in the street outside my window
at half-past two in the morning
into thirds and fourths
and sharps and flats.’
‘Among the waves
(gambolling upon the deserted shore),
so many barrel-organs ….
They glide like stately swans
over the surface:
And their candles are reflected in the mirrors at their feet.’
‘I must each day say o’er the very same.
I must each day say o’er the very same.’
‘I would pay one-and-nine for an artichoke,
provided that it was fresh,
and gathered between half-past one
and half-past two in the morning
by an old man with a glass eye ….
I would indeed pay one-and-nine
for such an artichoke.’
‘This is perfectly serious,
perfectly serious (I mean it);
Measures may have to be taken.
Something ought to be stopped.
This kind of thing ought not to be allowed.’
Wandering among Paul’s serpents
She expressed a faint desire
To start her life afresh.
She said she was tired of playing bridge;
And of removing her teeth last thing at night before going to bed;
And of buying chrysanthemums
For her husband’s grave
Every ninth of October: …
… Poor thing!
She really deserves no pity,
But yet one grudgingly gives it her.
She sits in the bathroom
Staring at her distorted reflection
On the curved copper side of the geyser.
There is still a disturbing memory
Of last Sunday’s breakfast,
When the eggs had not been boiled properly,
And she had had to speak severely
To the Cook.
She went out of the bathroom.
She ran downstairs.
She went out by the French windows.
She felt the cold sea-air on her face.
‘Immeasurably wan
the grace of women,
… distant, … distant; …
and rose-petals lying fading on the grass;
and the hush and the sway of the sea,
which seems like dew dying the fruit
with ermine and jasmine.’
She went across the lawn
Towards the sea.
‘This is perfectly serious,
perfectly serious (I mean it);
Measures may have to be taken.
Something ought to be stopped.
This kind of thing ought not to be allowed.’
‘I must each day say o’er the very same.
I must each day say o’er the very same.’
She saw the sea.
She heard the barrel-organs
Playing eternally
At the bottom of the sea.
She remembered,
(As she approached the sea),
The linoleum,
And the artichokes,
And the geyser.
Sad wraith,
Thy hair (white, … white),
Flowing out like a towel,
Rises and becomes part of the texture
Of the tower of your thoughts,
Flickering solemnly, like your hair,
Round your head.
‘The beach is a chess-board.’
‘Among the waves
(gambolling upon the deserted shore),
so many barrel-organs ….
They glide like stately swans
over the surface:
And their candles are reflected in the mirrors at their feet.’
‘The beach is a chess-board.’
She remembered her husband.
She saw the chrysanthemums
Burning yellow in the rain,
(Like the barrel-organ’s candles),
In the grass above his grave.
‘The grave is dark.
There is no death.
The sea shall give up its dead.’
She sits on the beach,
Staring at her reflection
On the curved glass side of a wave.
‘These feet are feet (yes, indeed feet),
they are covered with sand,
they are cold,
they are feet,
feet, feet,
feet.’
‘I must each day say o’er the very same.
I must each day say o’er the very same.’
‘Little drops of water, little grains,
trickle in a slow stream
down my back and through my nose,
and tingle in my eyes,
and turn my feet into cement.’
‘Death has nothing whatever to do
with linoleum or artichokes or the geyser.’
‘The barrel-organs
shall play my funeral march,
and the drums of the sea
shall roll at my departure.’
‘Unending, unending,
Beyond the veil
there is no death,’
(The waves cover her),
‘linoleum, artichokes, the geyser
so damp, so distant,
rose-petals and skeletons
unending, unending,
unending.’
‘I must each day say o’er the very same.’
THE NEW ISAIAH
To Oswald Spengler
ALONG the highways strewn with ashen filth
the ragged pilgrims come to the new Metropolis,
that cruel City, built of stone and steel,
where unveiled passions, unashamed crimes,
the windy avenues traverse, where lust
wars bitte
rly with lust, where naked lights
illumine nightly what the day concealed.
They come in hordes, they come all day,
the oafs, the ignorant, the louts,
who tire at last of retch and sweat
on farms, on all-too-barren fields,
whose crude desires, unsatisfied
by buxom cheek of dairymaid,
by greasy thigh of country-wench,
come hither in an eager rout
in search of painted lips and faces,
of limbs by nightly libertines embraced.
They come to toil at City desk,
to serve in cafés or in shops,
to balance on the scaffolding
of building-sites, to dig the roads,
to wait in the weary, rain-drenched queues
that straggle outside the Labour Exchanges;
or, if the City finds them fools,
they sit and sleep like sodden sacks
on the rusty seats of embankments or suburbs.
When night descends, when the last toil is done,
the City streets, garbed in beguiling lights,
invite the labourer to every vice,
and laughter squalls, and crowds go arm-in-arm,
the whores come out to wait in alleyways
where sudden drunks from hidden corners lurch,
and Pleasure Palaces and smoky dens
alike proclaim their divers cheap attractions.
In stinking sewers open to the sky
the worn-out profligates lie down to die;
and rank contagion fills the germ-laid air
from poisoned corpses that the wind strips bare.
Midst clawing shadows and the web of crazy nights,
in stuffy rooms that paralyse the mind,
the weakened bodies of this later race of men
beget a stunted and deformed mankind.
Nor art nor music flourishes in this decline;
the world degenerates, has lost its mind.
We hang our harps upon the trees to weep
and with our brushes paint disintegration’s signs.
All aim and faith has gone. Men do not grope
within this xanthic fog, nor do they hope,
but toil and grovel as the years proceed.
They toil for nothing; nor do they feel need.
The ranting whirligigs revolve and scream
in acrid breath of smoke or steam;
the lights are harsh and dazzle every eye
to signs of omnipresent Destiny.
But Destiny’s brass trumpet wakes the wise.
They see decay, they see the falling globe,
they see the slow inevitable decline