All the Poems

by Stevie Smith

  And made the people’s cattle graze on sand.

  Ratted from many a pool and forced amalgamation

  And dealt in shares which never had a stock exchange quotation.

  Non flocci facio, I do not care

  For wrongs you made the other fellow bear:

  ’Tis not for these unsocial acts not these

  I wet my pen. I would not have you tease,

  With a repentance smug and overdue

  For all the things you still desire to do,

  The ears of an outraged divinity:

  But oh your tie is crooked and I see

  Too plain you had an éclair for your tea.

  It is this nonchalance about your person –

  That is the root of my profound aversion.

  You are too fat. In spite of stays

  Your shape is painful to the polished gaze;

  Your uncombed hair grows thin and daily thinner,

  In fact you’re far too ugly to be such a sinner.

  Lord Barrenstock and Epicene, consider all that you have done

  Lord Epicene and Barrenstock, yet not two Lords but one,

  I think you are an object not of fear but pity

  Be good, my Lord, since you can not be pretty.

  Maximilian Esterhazy

  O Maximilian stern and wild

  Wilt thou not look on me thy little child

  Thy once so darling dear, so closely presst,

  So cared for, so extravagantly dresst,

  Raised up from nothing in thought to be

  A furnished dwelling of felicity?

  Now thou dost frown and all my walls descend

  Like Jericho’s and there is a swift end

  Of comely donjon and of crested tops

  Of flying buttresses and decorated props.

  O never castle in the hills of Spain

  Was half so much of nothing as thy Jane,

  When thou dost turn away and no more look,

  She is a song unsung, an unwrit book.

  What is the Time?

  or

  St Hugh of Lincoln

  What is the time, my limber lad,

  What is the time, I pray?

  I am old and blind

  And weak in my mind,

  But what is the time of day?

  He took the youth by his golden hair

  He dragged him up a crooked stair

  Never more was Hughie seen,

  Be warned, my child, while the grass is green.

  Major Macroo

  Major Hawkaby Cole Macroo

  Chose

  Very wisely

  A patient Griselda of a wife with a heart of gold

  That never beat for a soul but him

  Himself and his slightest whim.

  He left her alone for months at a time

  When he had to have a change

  Just had to

  And his pension wouldn’t stretch to a fare for two

  And he didn’t want it to.

  And if she wept she was game and nobody knew it

  And she stood at the edge of the tunnel and waved as his train went through it.

  And because it was cheaper they lived abroad

  And did he care if she might be unhappy or bored?

  He did not.

  He’d other things to think of – a lot.

  He’d fads and he fed them fat,

  And she could lump it and that was that.

  He’d several boy friends

  And she thought it was nice for him to have them,

  And she loved him and felt that he needed her and waited

  And waited and never became exasperated.

  Even his room

  Was dusted and kept the same,

  And when friends came

  They went into every room in the house but that one

  Which Hawkaby wouldn’t have shown.

  Such men as these, such selfish cruel men

  Hurting what most they love what most loves them,

  Never make a mistake when it comes to choosing a woman

  To cherish them and be neglected and not think it inhuman.

  Private Means is Dead

  Private Means is dead

  God rest his soul,

  Officers and fellow-rankers said.

  Captive Good, attending Captain Ill

  Can tell us quite a lot about the Captain,

  If he will.

  Major Portion

  Is a disingenuous person

  And as for Major Operation well I guess

  We all know what his reputation is.

  The crux and Colonel of the whole matter,

  (As you can read in the Journal, if it’s not tattered)

  Lies in the Generals, Collapse, Debility, Panic and Uproar,

  Who are too old in any case

  To go to the War.

  Bereavement

  Maria Holt

  Was not the dolt

  That people thought her.

  Her face was full

  Her mind was not dull

  She was my daughter.

  She had so much to do so very much

  And used to shuffle round upon a crutch,

  The younger children always called her mother,

  And so she was to sister and to brother

  Poor wretch she’s dead and now I am bereft

  Of £60 each year to fill the place she left

  I never paid a cent before; it is too bad,

  It’s worse to lose a lass than lose a lad.

  Death of Mr Mounsel

  I am dying Egypt dying

  Keep my watch and send word home

  Never mind about the funeral

  Just a simple coping stone

  Manly virtue needs no bushel

  Baby hands that cling and tear

  Better twenty years of Kathy

  Than the fiend’s own heart of fear

  Solitude corrupting manners

  Often has the tale been told

  Memory paints a brighter pansy

  Springing from the funeral mould

  Let my grave with wrath no stranger

  Visit not complaining come

  Unmolested quit of danger

  Quietly I slip hence and home

  But when lights are glowing lower

  Pressing downward through the gloom

  And the porter shows the lady

  To the first-class waiting-room

  Then let every City Pretty –

  You not least dear you not least –

  Shed a tear for Mister Mounsel

  Most unhappily deceased.

  Who Killed Lawless Lean?

  The parrot

  Is eating a carrot

  In his cage in the garret

  Why is the parrot’s

  Cage in the garret?

  He is not a sage

  Parrot: his words enrage.

  Downstairs

  In his bed

  Lies the head

  Of the family

  He is dead.

  And the brothers gather

  Mutter utter would rather

  Forget

  The words the parrot

  Said.

  When high in his cage swinging

  From the lofty ceiling

  Sat the pet screaming:

  ‘Who killed Lawless Lean?’

  It was not at all fitting.

  So they put the parrot

  In his cage in the garret

  And gave him a carrot

  To keep him quiet.

  He should be glad they did not wring his neck.

  Road Up

  It seemed a curious place to rest one’s body and take one’s ease

  Here in the very middle of Euston Road.

  Now if it had been on the Thames’ green bank, under poplar trees,

  But here the traffic instead of the water flowed.

  It was a British working man who lay full length on his back

  A
nd every now and then he turned and hit the road a thwack.

  Was he dowser tapping for water I wonder,

  Or was it a sudden spasm of rage that split his dreams asunder?

  Mrs Osmosis

  Mrs Osmosis

  Is all right in small doses

  Like what I was saying about Mrs Pale

  There’s a tell-tale

  And for why?

  Cos I blacked her eye

  Last Fri –

  day.

  It don’t sound natural to me

  But they do say Mr P.

  Well it all comes of her going with a fellow which ain’t hardly so to say

  Not that he’d cause to worry, seeing it was that way.

  The Fugitive’s Ride

  Across the bridge across the dyke

  Foresworn by friend and foe alike,

  I ride

  The field upon the further side

  Stretches before me and its wide

  Horizon dark against dark sky

  Beckons me on. Dim homesteads lie

  To left and right as I ride by.

  It is a wet and steamy night,

  More steamy night I have not seen,

  More steamy night there has not been,

  I have rode on for many a mile

  And now it does not rain

  And has not done for quite a while

  And all the plain

  Lies limpid underneath the stars

  That give an eerie light

  And make the plain seem to be bright.

  With standing water, deep or shallow?

  Deep lake, or river? Corn or fallow?

  Lord, Lord, I cannot say

  But warily I pick my way

  This false starlight is worse than no light

  To bewitch

  The eyes and hide the gaping ditch.

  What owl was that that howls upon

  The trees athwart the stream

  And have I been this way before

  Or do I dream?

  He seems to be a mournful one

  That hoots to make a coward run

  I hate to hear I hate to see

  An owl that hoots so dismally

  It makes my very blood run cold

  No bird should dare to be so bold

  I feel as fearful as he should

  Who’s done a dreadful deed of blood.

  (Now hold up horse a moment pray,

  Don’t sidestep in that foolish way,

  If you fall down upon the ground

  There is a chance you will be drowned.)

  A wetter plain I have not seen

  A wetter plain there has not been

  I say there has not been

  A wetter plain

  Since first I came

  And may I die

  If once again it does not rain.

  In early dawn is this dark plain

  Made darker still of darkness shorn

  More dismaller but still the same

  Lit by the ray that heralds day.

  On my poor horse so lost so wan

  That cannot understand

  Why we must ride and ride and ride

  And never yet come back home

  On you must go until you drop

  For since time won’t, I dare not stop.

  Suburb

  How nice it is to slink the streets at night

  And taste the slight

  Flavour of acrity that comes

  From pavements throwing off the dross

  Of human tread.

  Each paving stone sardonic

  Grins to its fellow citizen masonic:

  ‘Thank God they’re gone,’ each to the other cries

  ‘Now there is nothing between us and the skies’.

  Joy at this state transports the hanging heavens

  And down to earth they rain celestial dew

  The pavement darkly gleams beneath the lamp

  Forgetful now of daylight’s weary tramp.

  Round about the streets I slink

  Suburbs are not so bad I think

  When their inhabitants can not be seen,

  Even Palmers Green.

  Nobody loves the hissing rain as I

  And round about I slink

  And presently

  Turn from the sleek wet pavements to the utter slime

  Where jerrybuilders building against time

  Pursue their storied way,

  Foundations and a pram,

  Four walls and a pot of jam,

  They have their sentries now

  Upon a hundred hillocks.

  Night watchman bad and old

  Take rheumatism in exchange for gold.

  Do you see that pub between the trees

  Which advertises gin and cyclists’ teas?

  Down there I know a lane

  Under the padding rain

  Where leaves are born again

  Every night

  And reach maturity

  In a remote futurity

  Before dawn’s light.

  I have never seen

  Anything quite so green

  So close so dark so bright

  As the green leaves at night.

  I will not show you yet

  Lest you should forget,

  But when the time is come for your dismembering

  I’ll show you that you may die remembering.

  Beware the Man

  Beware the man whose mouth is small

  For he’ll give nothing and take all.

  Breughel

  The ages blaspheme

  The people are weak

  As in a dream

  They evilly speak.

  Their words in a clatter

  Of meaningless sound

  Without form or matter

  Echo around.

  The people oh Lord

  Are sinful and sad

  Prenatally biassed

  Grow worser born bad

  They sicken oh Lord

  They have no strength in them

  Oh rouse up my God

  And against their will win them.

  Must they lambs to the slaughter

  Delivered be

  With each son and daughter

  Irrevocably?

  From tower and steeple

  Ring out funeral bells

  Oh Lord save thy people

  They have no help else.

  The Blood Flows Back

  The blood flows back behind my eyes

  For fears I cannot recognise.

  I stood upon the brink

  And heard the clink

  And clatter of my own thoughts.

  Fear drove them on, the craven crew,

  My soul was sick,

  I knew it knew

  For the first time

  And saw

  The thoughts that thronged its house

  All fears and lies

  All fears and craven subterfuge.

  My soul was sick and wished to die.

  Weeping its immortality

  My soul stood there.

  Ah me, ah me,

  What use contempt and hate?

  Myself is welded to a whole

  And hidden thoughts must have their place

  With Will and Soul.

  Now Pine-Needles

  Now pine-needles

  You lie under the pine-trees

  In the darkness of the pine-trees

  The sun has not touched you

  You are not brown because the sun has touched you

  You are brown because you are dead.

  The parent tree sighs in the wind

  But it does not sigh for sadness

  Only because the wind blows

  The pine-tree sighs

  Only because you are dead

  You are brown.

  Well, you do not know

  That you were so and so

  And are now so and so.

  So why should I say

  You
were alive and are now dead

  That your parent tree sighs in the wind?

  I will sleep on you pine-needles,

  Then I shall be

  No more than the pine-tree

  No more than the pine-tree’s needles.

  Portrait (1)

  She was not always so unkind I swear

  And keep this thought that’s all I have of her

  Who was upon a time my only thought and care.

  Sweet memory hid from the light of truth

  I’ll keep thee, for I would not have thy worth

  Questioned in Court of Law nor answer for it on my oath,

  But hid in my fond heart I’ll carry thee

  And to a fair false thought I’ll marry thee

  And when thy time is done I’ll bury thee.

  Louise

  Why is the child so pale,

  Sitting alone in that sawny way

  On an upturned valise

  In a suburban sitting-room?

  Louise,

  Can’t you give moma a smile?

  Come and say How-do-you-do

  To Mr Tease.

  Why is the child so pale?

  They have come overnight by rail

  From Budapest;

  Oh the poor child.

  And the money has given out,

  And they’ve telegraphed home for more,

  And meanwhile they’re having to stay

  In a small-beerish way

  With Mr and Mrs Tease, as I have said,

  Of Harringay Park, instead

  Of having a comfortable bed

  At the Ritz.

  The child is pale and precocious,

  She knows all the capitals of Europe,

  She knows all there is to know about Wagons-Lits

  And First Class accommodation,

  But she has never been long enough in any nation

  Completely to unpack:

  Always her thoughts are centred

  On the nearest railway station.

  Moma and nurse and Louise

  A hatbox, a trunk, a valise,

  And one was lost at Marseille.

  ‘Oh if only I could stay

  Just for two weeks in one place’

  Thinks the child of the doleful face.

  Moma has had a cup of tea,

  She is feeling better

  ‘Cheer up, girlie’ she says

  ‘I’ve a letter here from your poppa,

  It will take him some time to raise the bucks …

  Shucks, child,

  Go and help nurse unpack,

  We’re here for two weeks at least

  Then we leave for Athens and the Near East.’

  In the suburban sitting-room

  The poor child sits in a mazy fit:

  Such a quick answer to a prayer

  Shakes one a bit.

  TENDER ONLY TO ONE (1938)

  Tender Only to One

  Tender only to one

  Tender and true

  The petals swing

  To my fingering

  Is it you, or you, or you?

  Tender only to one

  I do not know his name

  And the friends who fall

  To the petals’ call

  May think my love to blame.

  Tender only to one