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All the Poems

Page 19

by Stevie Smith


  Is it not interesting to see

  How the Christians continually

  Try to separate themselves in vain

  From the doctrine of eternal pain.

  They cannot do it,

  They are committed to it,

  Their Lord said it,

  They must believe it.

  So the vulnerable body is stretched without pity

  On flames for ever. Is this not pretty?

  The religion of Christianity

  Is mixed of sweetness and cruelty

  Reject this Sweetness, for she wears

  A smoky dress out of hell fires.

  Who makes a God? Who shows him thus?

  It is the Christian religion does,

  Oh, oh, have none of it

  Blow it away, have done with it.

  This god the Christians show

  Out with him, out with him, let him go.

  Recognition not Enough

  Sin recognised – but that – may keep us humble,

  But oh, it keeps us nasty.

  Was He Married?

  Was he married, did he try

  To support as he grew less fond of them

  Wife and family?

  No,

  He never suffered such a blow.

  Did he feel pointless, feeble and distrait,

  Unwanted by everyone and in the way?

  From his cradle he was purposeful,

  His bent strong and his mind full.

  Did he love people very much

  Yet find them die one day?

  He did not love in the human way.

  Did he ask how long it would go on,

  Wonder if Death could be counted on for an end?

  He did not feel like this,

  He had a future of bliss.

  Did he never feel strong

  Pain for being wrong?

  He was not wrong, he was right,

  He suffered from others’, not his own, spite.

  But there is no suffering like having made a mistake

  Because of being of an inferior make.

  He was not inferior,

  He was superior.

  He knew then that power corrupts but some must govern?

  His thoughts were different.

  Did he lack friends? Worse,

  Think it was for his fault, not theirs?

  He did not lack friends,

  He had disciples he moulded to his ends.

  Did he feel over-handicapped sometimes, yet must draw even?

  How could he feel like this? He was the King of Heaven.

  … find a sudden brightness one day in everything

  Because a mood had been conquered, or a sin?

  I tell you, he did not sin.

  Do only human beings suffer from the irritation

  I have mentioned? learn too that being comical

  Does not ameliorate the desperation?

  Only human beings feel this,

  It is because they are so mixed.

  All human beings should have a medal,

  A god cannot carry it, he is not able.

  A god is Man’s doll, you ass,

  He makes him up like this on purpose.

  He might have made him up worse.

  He often has, in the past.

  To choose a god of love, as he did and does,

  Is a little move then?

  Yes, it is.

  A larger one will be when men

  Love love and hate hate but do not deify them?

  It will be a larger one.

  Was it not curious?

  Was it not curious of Aúgustin

  Saint Aúgustin, Saint Aúgustin,

  When he saw the beautiful British children

  To say such a curious thing?

  He said he must send the gospel, the gospel,

  At once to them over the waves

  He never said he thought it was wicked

  To steal them away for slaves

  To steal the children away

  To buy and have slavery at all

  Oh no, oh no, it was not a thing

  That caused him any appal.

  Was it not curious of Gregory

  Rather more than of Aúgustin?

  It was not curious so much

  As it was wicked of them.

  The Frozen Lake

  To a mere

  Sir Bedevere

  Consigned Excalibur

  White and silent is the snowflake

  Falling, falling, and it will make

  Soon all flat and like a white lake

  In a white and silent state

  Beaming flat and vacant.

  Underneath the frozen water

  Steps the Lord of Ullan’s daughter

  She is a witch of endless might

  And rules the borders of the night.

  So however white and silent

  Seems the lake, it is not vacant

  But contains Lord Ullan’s daughter

  Walking as her Uncle taught her.

  Her Uncle is a greater sage

  At witchcraft than the lady is

  But he has gone, one knows not where

  And so his niece only is here.

  No, this water is not vacant

  But is full of deep intent

  Of deep intent and management

  Contrived by Ullan’s daughter

  To what end I know not.

  And to my mind the lake is brighter

  For the lady’s presence; whiter

  Though its coat of winter make it

  It is for Ullan’s daughter’s sake it

  Beams to me so brightly.

  Often as I gaze upon it

  Tread upon the ice upon it

  I can feel the water shiver

  As the lady with a slither

  Comes to tap the ice, to tear it,

  Yes, I think that I can hear it

  Tapped and tickled with her fingers

  Where a floe in splinter lingers

  Where I cannot come.

  But I swear I hear her, seem to

  See her face that seems to beam to

  Me that hovers half-enchanted

  Yes I hover half-enchanted

  Wondering if I am wanted

  Beckoned by her smile or threatened,

  And as always, so today

  As I stand and wonder, Ullan’s daughter

  Goes away.

  To a mere

  Sir Bedevere

  Consigned Excalibur

  And who is this who now comes here?

  It is Sir Bedevere.

  This afternoon Sir Bedevere

  Found me hesitating by

  The icy lake, and he said: ‘Sir,

  Where lies the sword Excalibur?’

  I answered with a lie:

  ‘It must be in some other mere.’

  And then I said, ‘I truly love her,

  Love the Lord of Ullan’s daughter.’

  And so I answered with a lie

  As I can only think of her.

  ‘Oh shall I go beneath the water

  Where she walks, or wait for her?

  Tell me, Sir Bedevere,

  Shall I wait here for her?’

  He looked at me, but did not say

  A word, then he too went away.

  And so they go. I am alone,

  The white lake beams beneath the moon,

  O dear white lake, O dearest love

  That will not show yourself above

  The bitter ice, but leave me here

  To be annoyed by Bedevere,

  I come, I come. And then I dived

  Into the lake, but through my side

  As I went down to seek for her

  There passed the sword Excalibur,

  In cold and silence seek for her,

  The sword sunk in the mere,

  And so I died, and the lake-water

  That holds the form of Ullan’s daughter

  With all my blood is
dyed,

  Is dyed,

  With all my love is dyed.

  Poor Soul, poor Girl!

  a débutante

  I cannot imagine anything nicer

  Than to be struck by lightning and killed suddenly crossing a field

  As if somebody cared.

  Nobody cares whether I am alive or dead.

  From the French (1)

  Indolent youth,

  Drawn by everything in turn,

  By not being decided enough

  I lost my life.

  Admire Cranmer!

  Admire the old man, admire him, admire him,

  Mocked by the old priests of Mary Tudor, given to the flames,

  Flinching and overcoming the flinching, Cranmer.

  Admire the martyrs of Bloody Mary’s reign,

  In the shocking arithmetic of cruel average, ninety

  A year, three-hundred; admire them.

  But still I cry: Admire the Archbishop,

  The old man, the scholar, admire him.

  Not simply, for flinching and overcoming simply,

  But for his genius, admire him,

  His delicate feelings of genius, admire him,

  That wrote the Prayer Book

  (Admire him!)

  And made the flames burn crueller. Admire Cranmer!

  Votaries of Both Sexes Cry First to Venus

  Crying for pleasure,

  Crying for pain,

  Longing to see you

  Again and again.

  But one stood up and said: I love

  The love that comes in the dark fields,

  In the late night, in the hot breathless dark night;

  In the moony forest, when there is a moon,

  In the moony rides of the dark forest.

  I love this love; it is eerie if there is not

  My love in my arms then. It is an excitement

  In the arms of a person. It is exciting then,

  It is such an excitement as is on the approach

  Of Death: it is my love in my arms, and then

  The trees and the dark trees and the soft grass and the moon

  Are not arrogant, as they are if I am alone,

  Not a measure, a great measure of indifference, not arrogant

  Or in their way exciting either in a way that is too much.

  Here this person standing up before Venus wept

  And wept, and the tears of this person were warm

  And this person then said: There is no love in my arms

  No sweet person I love in my arms, and the tears

  And the soft strong feelings I parade underneath the trees,

  I lay them down; on the soft dark green grass I lay down

  My strong feelings. They are for you to eat up, Venus,

  But you do not care for them much. Then they are

  For the god who created me. Let him have them.

  Then this person began to laugh and dance

  And Venus was offended; but behind Venus there came

  First a little light, then some laughter, then a hand

  That took up the great feelings, and then a blessing fell

  Like the moon, and there was not any Venus any longer

  But the votaries were not abashed, they were blessed.

  Crying for pleasure,

  Crying for pain,

  Longing to see you

  Again and again.

  Yes this time when they sang their song they were blessed.

  From the French (2)

  ‘We shall never be one mummy only

  Beneath the antique deserts and the happy palms.’

  I Was so Full …

  I was so full of love and joy

  There was not enough people to love,

  So I said: Let there be God,

  Then there was God above.

  I was so full of anger and hate

  To be hated was not enough people,

  So I said: Let there be a Devil to hate,

  Then down below was the Devil.

  These persons have worked very much in my mind

  And by being not true, have made me unkind,

  So now I say: Away with them, away; we should

  Not believe fairy stories if we wish to be good.

  Think of them as persons from the fairy wood.

  From the Italian

  an old superstition

  A woolly dog,

  A red-haired man,

  Better dead

  Than to have met ’em.

  God Speaks

  I made Man with too many flaws. Yet I love him.

  And if he wishes, I have a home above for him.

  I should like him to be happy. I am genial.

  He should not paint me as if I were abominable.

  As for instance, that I had a son and gave him for their salvation.

  This is one of the faults I meant. It leads to nervous prostration.

  All the same, there is a difficulty. I should like him to be happy in heaven here,

  But he cannot come by wishing. Only by being already at home here.

  Edmonton, thy cemetery …

  Edmonton, thy cemetery

  In which I love to tread

  Has roused in me a dreary thought

  For all the countless dead,

  Ah me, the countless dead.

  Yet I believe that one is one

  And shall for ever be,

  And while I hold to this belief

  I walk, oh cemetery,

  Thy footpaths happily.

  And I believe that two and two

  Are but an earthly sum

  Whose totalling has no part at all

  In heavenly kingdom-come,

  I love the dead, I cry, I love

  Each happy happy one.

  Till Doubt returns with a dreary face

  And fills my heart with dread

  For all the tens and tens and tens

  That must make up a hundred,

  And I begin to sing with him

  As if Belief has never been

  Ah me, the countless dead, ah me

  The countless countless dead.

  My Muse

  My Muse sits forlorn

  She wishes she had not been born

  She sits in the cold

  No word she says is ever told.

  Why does my Muse only speak when she is unhappy?

  She does not, I only listen when I am unhappy

  When I am happy I live and despise writing

  For my Muse this cannot be but dispiriting.

  THE FROG PRINCE AND OTHER POEMS (1966)

  The Frog Prince

  I am a frog

  I live under a spell

  I live at the bottom

  Of a green well

  And here I must wait

  Until a maiden places me

  On her royal pillow

  And kisses me

  In her father’s palace.

  The story is familiar

  Everybody knows it well

  But do other enchanted people feel as nervous

  As I do? The stories do not tell,

  Ask if they will be happier

  When the changes come

  As already they are fairly happy

  In a frog’s doom?

  I have been a frog now

  For a hundred years

  And in all this time

  I have not shed many tears,

  I am happy, I like the life,

  Can swim for many a mile

  (When I have hopped to the river)

  And am for ever agile.

  And the quietness,

  Yes, I like to be quiet

  I am habituated

  To a quiet life,

  But always when I think these thoughts

  As I sit in my well

  Another thought comes to me and says:

  It is part of the spell

  To be happy

  To work up contentment

&n
bsp; To make much of being a frog

  To fear disenchantment

  Says, It will be heavenly

  To be set free,

  Cries, Heavenly the girl who disenchants

  And the royal times, heavenly,

  And I think it will be.

  Come then, royal girl and royal times,

  Come quickly,

  I can be happy until you come

  But I cannot be heavenly,

  Only disenchanted people

  Can be heavenly.

  Tenuous and Precarious

  Tenuous and Precarious

  Were my guardians,

  Precarious and Tenuous,

  Two Romans.

  My father was Hazardous,

  Hazardous,

  Dear old man,

  Three Romans.

  There was my brother Spurious,

  Spurious Posthumous,

  Spurious was spurious

  Was four Romans.

  My husband was Perfidious,

  He was perfidious,

  Five Romans.

  Surreptitious, our son,

  Was surreptitious,

  He was six Romans.

  Our cat Tedious

  Still lives,

  Count not Tedious

  Yet.

  My name is Finis,

  Finis, Finis,

  I am Finis,

  Six, five, four, three, two,

  One Roman,

  Finis.

  A House of Mercy

  It was a house of female habitation,

  Two ladies fair inhabited the house,

  And they were brave. For although Fear knocked loud

  Upon the door, and said he must come in,

  They did not let him in.

  There were also two feeble babes, two girls,

  That Mrs S. had by her husband had,

  He soon left them and went away to sea,

  Nor sent them money, nor came home again

  Except to borrow back

  Her Naval Officer’s Wife’s Allowance from Mrs S.

  Who gave it him at once, she thought she should.

  There was also the ladies’ aunt

  And babes’ great aunt, a Mrs Martha Hearn Clode,

  And she was elderly.

  These ladies put their money all together

  And so we lived.

  I was the younger of the feeble babes

  And when I was a child my mother died

  And later Great Aunt Martha Hearn Clode died

  And later still my sister went away.

  Now I am old I tend my mother’s sister

  The noble aunt who so long tended us,

  Faithful and True her name is. Tranquil.

  Also Sardonic. And I tend the house.

  It is a house of female habitation

  A house expecting strength as it is strong

  A house of aristocratic mould that looks apart

  When tears fall; counts despair

  Derisory. Yet it has kept us well. For all its faults,

  If they are faults, of sternness and reserve,

  It is a Being of warmth I think; at heart

  A house of mercy.

  The Best Beast of the Fat-Stock Show at Earls Court

  in monosyllables

  The Best Beast of the Show

 

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