by Mervyn Peake
What ish it that makesh you jealoush
To behold me shatishfied?
Give me a long sword that glittersh
And a drove of burnished fliesh.
Theshe will waft me into regionsh
Coveted in Paradishe.
Give me a blue pinnacle
That shtabsh into a shky of flowersh
And I’ll revel in a cool
Transhendanshy for hoursh and hoursh.
Give me theshe cold fwend, ’n’ bwiefly
I shall never need a bwide.
Theshe are what I long for, chiefly –
Theshe would leave me shatishfied.
‘Do you appreshiate its shadnesh?’ said Swelter interrupting his own song and peering down into the clouds.
Give me the autumnal weather,
Sho that I can gwieve a bit!
Give me a red woollen feather
(I have heard you weave a bit.)
Give me food ’n’ drink ’n’ fun
’N’ a table with no legs –
Let me have a tweakle bun
Eff’ry morning wif my eggs!
Give me theshe, cold fwend, & really
There’ll be nuffing I’m denied –
Theshe neshessitiesh would clearly
Leave me more than shatishfied.
Yet, if you were bent on shtaving
Off my qualms of hollow dearth –
If I knew that you were cwaving
To ashist my second birth –
I would ashk you, very shimply –
And my voice would frill with pwide,
For a shmall ’n’ freckled onion
Shtranded by the ebbing tide.
Give me thish! Cold shir! I promish
I will treat it well, I cried –
Such a gift would leave me shpeechlesh
And my yearningsh shatishfied.
Swelter was sagging in upon himself like something that folds itself up for the night. The words dragged on:
I will wear it ash a pendant
Calloush fwend ’n’ iron willed,
I would be in the ashendant
Fwend! Cold fwend, I’d be fulfilled!
Yet I shee you haven’t altered,
You are shtill ash cold as ice
In that cashe (and here I falters)
I shall have to pway the price.
Since you will not undershtand me
(Barren twee, unfructified,
Such am I!) when you could hand me
All, and make me shatishfied
If I waive the final item
Adamantine shir! ’n’ hide
My emoshions when I mish it
Dangling at my naked shide –
Shir! cold shir, if you could give me
What I asked for firshtly, I’d
Be for effermore your debtor
And be oh sho shatishfied –
Jusht perhapsh a few flamingoesh
’N’ the waishtcoat gween ’n’ bwown –
’N’ a shmall, shea-worthy pashte-boat
I can shtick to… as… I… dwown.
(November 1940)
From Figures of Speech. The Key to the drawing is on p. 234.
I Cannot Simply Stand and Watch
I cannot simply stand and watch
A man of fourteen stone
Skinning his wife upon the sly
And thinking he’s alone.
I always go straight up to him
And take away his knife,
Then looking in his eyes I say
‘Why must you skin your wife?’
On nine times out of every ten
Two tears start from his eyes,
And if he’s really genuine
He follows them with sighs
And then a kind of plaintive groan
Wracks his whole body through
Which makes me give him back his knife
And say ‘Go friend, and skin your wife
I see your point of view.’
(November 1940)
Upon the Summit of a Hill
Upon the summit of a hill
A bison sat alone
And from his hairy breast came forth
The sweetest moan.
Around him flowed the evening air
That ruffled his abundant hair.
(November 1940)
Come, Sit Beside Me Dear, He Said
‘Come, sit beside me dear,’ he said,
‘And tell me why you languish.’
The tears that started from my eyes
Were eloquent, and his surprise
Showed clearly that he understood
My spirit was in anguish.
‘I am a most ambrosial man,’
He said, ‘So you can tell me
Exactly what your trouble is
For I am versed in mysteries,
And I will help you if I can.
What is it that befell thee?’
I sat, as I was bid, beside
The confidential stranger.
‘O nothing has befallen me,’
I said, as I looked up to see
The kind of face he had, for I’d
No wish to be in danger.
He had a tiger’s face, for which
I wasn’t quite prepared,
And when he saw that I had seen
What I had seen, his face I mean,
He uttered a tigerian cry
And every tooth was bared.
What with the sorrow of my own
And then the disillusion!
That such a dear, soft spoken thing
Should be a beast about to spring –
I must confess my marrow-bone
Was covered with confusion.
I did so want to bare my heart
To someone mild as Moses
And my advice is this, that you
Should watch the face that speaks to you
Before it even speaks, and make
A thorough diagnosis.
No never listen first, then look
But always look, then listen
If you can trust the countenance –
If not, regain your feet and bounce
Across each forest field or brook
Away from what has talked to you
As fast as you can hasten.
No one has ever heard the woe
And travail that I suffered.
But now, with no solidity
I’m just a memory to me
And I could kill myself to know
What easy prey I offered.
As you have guessed, that gentleman
Has thrived on my nutrition.
He’s eaten me, and I am dead,
But do remember what I’ve said:
A gentle voice may be misplaced
With a gross disposition.
(c. 1940)
From Figures of Speech. The Key to the drawing is on p. 234.
Deliria
I watched a camel sit astride
A rainbow in the Spring.
His eyes and legs were crossed; his hide
Was of the finest string.
The rainbow light upon his twine
Had set it all aglow
With pride and tinctures as divine
As one could wish to know.
He edged along the slender arc,
And then he rolled his eyes.
Below him the sepulchral dark
Surged through his hairy thighs;
Then, most precariously, I saw
Him stretch his length; his Vast
Expensive humps swung idly, for
He used elastoplast.
Ah, how precariously! he lay
Full length upon his hide,
While on his face such smiles made play,
As switch from side to side.
And then – he sang! but as his voice
Was very far removed,
I first mistook it for the noise
Of those whom once
I loved.
‘Deliria! Deliria!’
(What else could sound so sweet?)
‘Deliria! Deliria!’
I heard the voice repeat.
‘Deliria! Deliria!’
The haunting message came;
But I had hoped he’d tell me more
Than just my Christian name.
‘Deliria! Deliria!’
Oh I grew desperate –
To hear my name, and hear no more,
So I screamed out ‘Repeat
My Christian name once more to me
And I shall scorn you there,
And leave you, and go home to tea,
And brush my yellow hair.
And read my books, and never see
Or think of you again!’
I gulped, and gripped a nearby tree,
And waited in the rain.
Then through the April air, I stole
Another glance – he sat
Bolt upright on the rainbow; all
My hopes were based on that.
(1944)
The Sunlight Lies Upon the Fields
The sunlight lies upon the fields
It lies upon the trees
It lies upon the hills and clouds
And on the flowers and fleas.
It lies on everything it can,
For that is how it’s made.
And it would lie on me, except
That I am in the shade.
(1944)
Mine Was the One
Mine was the One. Mine was the two;
Mine was the three and four:
And I would even say that she
Rose up to seven or more.
But she is dead; the trumpeteer
Could not agree with her,
For he was twice as much as she
Could have accounted for.
‘Alack! alay! Alay, alack!
Pass me the wine; I think
The hour has come for men like me
To swim into the drink.’
He swam for many years; his friends
Last saw him thrashing far
Into those moonlit waves that freeze
Along the polar bar.
The thunder rolls across lit seas,
That bubble at the brim,
And he is swimming still, unless
A shark has eaten him.
(1944)
From Figures of Speech. The Key to the drawing is on p. 234.
From Figures of Speech. The Key to the drawing is on p. 234.
The Threads of Thought Are Not for Me
The threads of thought are not for me
But cotton ones I love,
The sort that stretch too high below,
And far too low above.
It is a case of nutriment
(A fallacy of course)
But why waste your accoutrement
On someone else’s horse?
The bridle and the reins are yours,
(And most expensive too)
The needle-work, a hideous red,
The saddle, black-and-blue.
It was a most ambrosial job
(The riding of the beast)
Especially through a brandy mob
Led by a whisky priest.
Yet all this while, the rankling thought
Keeps rankling in my mind
Why suffer a promiscuous Thread
To stretch so far behind?
(1944)
Come Husband! Come, and Ply the Trade
She.
Come Husband! Come, and ply the trade
Your father handed down –
I’ve heard you say your brains were made
For more than half-a-crown.
He.
You flatter me, but I am weary
Of my father’s trade;
And now he’s dead, I’m really very
Happy I’m afraid!
She.
Come come! you cannot so dispose
Of all your father’s toil
To build a business, goodness knows
He left it on the boil.
He.
I know, I know – but I prefer
To forge my own career –
So leave me if you please, or stir
My coffee for me dear.
She.
You always were pig-headed – you
He loved and stinted for!
Unkind and thoughtless husband! who
D’you think he minted for?
He.
For me of course. But don’t you see
I’m made for something more
Than ‘Use a rubber housemaid, we
Will bring her to your door.’
From Figures of Speech. The Key to the drawing is on p. 234.
She.
Conceited and ungrateful spouse,
I’m tired to death of you.
And what is more I hate this house
You built and brought me to.
He.
And you forget, sweet Irritant,
That everything about you
Reminds me that I might have spent
The last twelve years without you.
Your pear shaped head, your crimson ears,
Your eyes like bits of glass,
Your frocks cut out with garden shears
Your tooth of burnished brass.
She.
And you forget, there comes a point
When insults cease to give
Effect, and your abuse disjoints
What arguments you have.
(1944)
How Good It Is to Be Alone (1)
How good it is to be alone
With uncles and with aunts,
With nephews on the telephone
And nieces dressed like plants.
How welcome is this solitude,
With grandpa on the tray
And grandma being deaf and rude
At any time of day.
How porous and how recondite
Are peaceful days and slow.
I love my relatives to fight
For half an hour or so.
But though my thoughts are chiefly tied
To homely things and mild
I have a somewhat grimmer side,
That must be reconciled.
For sometimes, at the breathless crack
Of midnight I arise,
And floating limply on my back
I startle the wide eyes
Of relatives convulsed with cramp
To see my body wheeling
So limply round and round each lamp
That dangles from each ceiling.
Then down I swoop, all bonelessly,
And as they bridle up,
I strike them quiltwards with the cry
Of a shrill buttercup.
Ah yes! but only now and then,
When, just to vaunt my pride
And prove myself to be a man
Who has ‘another side’.
For mostly I sit all alone
With uncles and with aunts
And nephews on the telephone
And nieces dressed like plants.
(1944)
How Good It Is to Be Alone (2)
How good it is to be alone
With uncles, and with aunts
Both underdone and overgrown
And dressed like Indian plants.
How welcome is the solitude
With grandpa on the tray,
And grandma being pink and rude
At any time of day.
How porous and how recondite
Are peaceful days and slow
‘Dear children won’t you scratch and bite
An extra hour or so.’
Sequestered in a chair of green
With Homer on my knee,
Sweet Relatives, I’ve never been
So full of Love for Thee.
(1944)
From Figures of Speech.
The Key to the drawing is on p. 234.
Upon My Golden Backbone
Upon my golden backbone
I float like any cork,
That hasn’t yet been washed ashore
Or swallowed by a shark.
I never seem to want to snarl
In jungles all day long –
I’ve been so much upon my back
My legs aren’t very strong.
It’s all because a Pelican
I didn’t eat one day,
Decided to look after me
That I behave this way.
And so, while Other Tigers slink
From tree… to tree… to tree,
I lie upon my back, and blink,
In Aqueous Ecstasy.
(1944)
All Over the Lilac Brine!
Around the shores of the Arrogant Isles,
Where the Cat-fish bask and purr,
And lick their paws with adhesive smiles,
And wriggle their fins of fur,
With my wife in a dress of mustard-and-cress,
On a table of rare design,
We skim and we fly, ’neath a fourpenny sky,
All over the lilac brine.
(1944)
The Sunlight Falls Upon the Grass