Or is it my pride speaks on her behalf,
Ventriloquizing to deceive myself?
Anger, grief, jealousy, shame confuse the issue,
Her beauty is a truth I can not blink
However angry, jealous, sad, ashamed.
Dissolve, image, dissolve!
Make no appeal to the hunter in my nature,
Leave me to self-reproach in my own time;
If I too promised more than you could meet,
Your beauty overrode my sense of fate
And fitness, with extravagant pretence.
Is it true that we were lovers once, or nearly?
Lovers should sleep together on one pillow
Clasped in each other’s arms with lip to lip,
Their bed should be a masterpiece of ease,
A mother-of-pearl embrace for its twin pearls.
But where do you sleep now, and where am I?
Disdaining all the comforts of old use
We fall apart, are made ridiculous.
You in your cell toss miserably enough
Under thin blankets on a springless couch,
And I two hundred miles away or further
Wallow in this feather bed,
With nothing else to rest my gaze upon
Than flowery wall-paper, bulging and stained,
And two stern cardboard signals: ‘God is love’, and
‘I was a stranger and ye took Me in’,
Ye took me in, took me in, took me in,….
The train of my thought straggles, loses touch,
Piles in confusion, takes the longer road,
Runs anyhow, heads true only by chance.
Sacred Carnivals trundle through my mind,
With Rhyme-compulsion mottoing each waggon.
God’s Love, the Holy Dove, and Heaven above
Sin, deadly Sin, Begin, the Fight to Win
Ye took me in; inn; inn; – and now a jolt
Returns me consciousness, and weary Logic
Gathers her snapped threads up. A mouldy inn
Offensive with cockchafers, sour and musty,
All night the signboard creaks and the blinds bang,
The cupboards groan, the draught under the door
Flurries the carpets of this inn, this inn.
How I came here? Where else could I be bettered?
Loneliness drew me here and cloudy weather
With cold Spring rains to chill me through and through
Pelting across the mountains, purging away
Affection for a fault, restoring faith ….
So God is Love? Admitted; still the thought
Is Dead Sea fruit to angry baffled lovers
Lying sleepless and alone in double beds,
Shaken in mind, harassed with hot blood fancies.
Break the ideal, and the animal’s left
Which this ideal stood as mask to hide.
Then the hot blood with no law hindering it
Drums and buffets suddenly at the heart
And seeks a vent with what lies first to hand.
But yet no earthbound evil spirit comes
Taking advantage of my unwrought mind,
Tempting me to a gay concubinage,
In likeness of some ancient queen of heaven
Ardent and ever young. The legends say
They come to hermits so, and holy saints,
Disguised in a most blinding loveliness;
Disrobe about the good man’s bed and twitch
His blankets off and make as if to kiss him
With sighs of passion irresistibly sweet.
Yet he has power to turn on them, to cry
‘In the name of Christ begone!’ and go they must.
If I were a hermit now – but being myself
I never give them challenge, never bend
Kneeling at my bedside for hours together
Praying aloud for chastity – that’s the bait
Certain to draw them from their shadowy caves,
Their broken shrines and rockbound fastnesses –
Praying against the World, the Flesh, the Devil,
But pausing most on Flesh – that praying against,
Proposing yet denying the fixed wish!
Closest expressed it’s the most dangerous ….
How would I say my prayers now, if I tried,
Using what formula? Would instinct turn
To
Gentle Jesus meek and mild
Look upon thy little child
To Gentle Jesus and the entrancing picture
Of Pretty mice in Plicity (where, alas,
Is County Plicity now? Beyond what skyline?
I climbed in vain to-day)…. When Rachel prays,
Does she still dreamily speak to Gentle Jesus,
The shepherd in that Nürnberg oleograph
Hanging above the nursery mantelpiece?
Her God? Anthropomorphic surely. One
Bearded like Moses, straddled on the clouds,
Armed with thunderbolts and shaggy eyebrows.
‘Bless me, dear God, and make me a good child.’
Her childishness obscures her womanhood.
When was I ever conscious in her presence
That she was bodily formed like other women
With womb for bearing and with breasts for suckling,
With power, when she desired, to rouse in me
By but the slightest art in diminution
Of her accustomed childish truthfulness,
A word or gesture hinting doubtfulness,
The angry stream flooding beyond restraint?
And yet no frisky wraith has come to-night
Assuming Rachel’s body, goading me
With false presentment of her honest person
To mutiny and to utter overthrow;
No wanton Venus, no bold Helen of Troy.
For look, a different play performs to-night!
See how come crowding in, with a bold air
Of pertinence I do not dare to question
This odd rag-tag-and-bobtail of lost souls,
Ecclesiastical, furtive, dim, far gone
In their dementia praecox! Doctor Hornblow
On the Pentateuch, Dean Dogma upon Ruth
(Ay, Ruth; the alien corn was not the worst)
Keble and Pusey, Moody and Sankey griddling,
And one most strange Victorian apparition,
The ghost of Gladstone, with his stickout collars,
Goes hand in hand with Señor Monkey-brand,
Comrades who, printed on a paper cover,
Gladstone in front and Monkey on the back,
Made the Impregnable Rock of Holy Scripture
Tacit defence of Darwin’s blasphemies.
There go the ghosts of Mason, Martin Tupper,
Dean Farrar, South, Cautionary Mrs. Turner,
Butterfield with a spotted senior clerk,
And a long rabble of confusing figures,
Nuns, deacons, theologians, commentators,
Spikes in birettas, missionaries like apes
Hairy and chattering, bald; with, everyone,
A book in the left hand tight clasped, the right
Free to point scorn.
My cauliflower-wicked candle
Gutters and splutters on the chair beside me,
Over two books and a letter; the crowd passing
Groans for reproach, confident in their numbers.
But l, long used to crowds and their cowardly ways,
Return these insults with the cold set eye
That breaks their corporate pride –
What? those are plays.
Yes, dramas by John Ford – Love’s Sacrifice,
The Broken Heart, ’Tis Pity She’s a Whore.
The titles shock? These things are ‘not convenient’?
Well, try this other by (ah) Canon Trout,
The Wisest Course of Love – why do you smile?
&nbs
p; The book of plays I bought, this was a present,
Sent me with Rachel’s letter – but you smile,
You’re smiling still? Then I apologize,
Ladies and Lords. Indeed I never guessed
Humour was a luxury you admitted.
‘’Tis pity she’s a… postulant’. Is it that?
Malicious hearts! but you still nod, laugh, point,
Pointing what joke? The Wisest Course of Love?
Yes?
I don’t see. I’ll buy it for a forfeit.
Then a red-haired beaky-nosed burly nun
Called Sister Agatha, so I tell myself,
Comes nearer, throws her veil aside, takes up
The envelope of the letter. Now she lays
A manicured finger on the office post-mark,
Leering down in my face.
I see it now,
You ugly she-bear. Wisest Course of Love
Is Maidenhead? Then you have read the letter?
Dictated it quite likely? You, then, you!
I know you, nun-official set to guide
The postulants through their long penances
And stern soul-searchings – with the twisted grin
Of a bawd mistress, none too well concealed,
You greeted Rachel in the Convent Hall,
And peered and saw that she was beautiful,
Giving her welcome with a sisterly kiss.
Mother Superior was quite satisfied
After inquiry in Burke’s Landed Gentry
That the newcomer was a suitable
Candidate for the Order of Seven Sorrows.
It’s so important to have ladies only!
You twirl dear Mother round a little finger;
You know her weaknesses, emotionalism,
Snobbery, love of ritual; quite content
To let her have her way in formal matters
If you may mould the spirit of the place
By due control of youthful aspirants,
Postulants and novices – with the glow
Of great devotion, honesty itself,
You teach them hatred of their woman-flesh
Eyeing their bodies with flagellant gaze
Approving shame’s rebellion. Maidenhead!
A well spiced joke! The carnal maidenhead
Untaken, but the maidenhead of spirit
Stolen away. Rachel in your good care!
She says three years’ probation. For three years
Humiliation, then she takes the veil
And goes for ever … ‘But of course, dear Friend,
(Where did she learn ‘Dear Friend’?)
Should I discover when I search my heart
That God has sealed me for some other life,
That my intended vow of resignation
Is only pride, why then I’m free again.
I pray for you,’ etc., and etc.
Dear Friend? lover or nothing it must be.
I’m tired of friends, I’m past the need of friends.
We never talked religion till that day.
I took for granted Rachel used her sense,
Thought for herself without the aid of priests
On spiritual matters: I? I never trouble
About such talk one year’s end to the next,
But one day argument began; she started
On Christian meekness, the low slavish virtue
‘Tapeinophrosune’, obsequiousness,
Which I called nonsense. ‘Nonsense?’ (with wide eyes)
‘Or call it poetry. Christ was never meek.
Let meekness crawl below in catacombs,
Pride drives the money-changers with a scourge,
Keeps silence to accusers, chooses death
When an escape is more acceptable
To justice than embarrassment of killing
I’m talking paradox? I never meant it.’
(Here I grew nettled at her wooden look)
‘And as for “feeling Jesus in my heart”
What does that mean? explain!
I might acknowledge that historically
All generous action flows from the prime source
Of Jesus’ teaching (though give Plato credit
And Aristotle). But Jesus as a power
Alive, praying, pleading like a ouija spirit,
Or Laughing Eyes the séance influence,
That’s stupid and unnecessary, in my mind.
I am a man, I am proud, Jesus was man and proud;
He died fulfilling, and his soul found peace.
I greet him friendly down the gulf of years.’
‘But no!’ she said. ‘There is a Spirit of Jesus
Say what you like, there is a Spirit of Jesus.’
So I allowed her that, changing my front
Saying, ‘If Jesus died on Cross, He’s dead,
In so far as Mary’s son, the prophet, died.
But hardly was He dead,
Than up this elemental demon sprang
Assuming mastership of Jesus’ school
Using his body, even, so it’s told
Calling himself by name of Jesus Risen.
Who was he? Some poor godling, fallen through pride
And greed of human flesh, on evil days.
He changed his heart and once more stood for power,
A roaring lion in the white lamb’s fleece,
So by a long campaign of self-abasement
And self-effacement grown mob-strong at length
He overturned high Heaven, now rules the world.
Yes, he’s a powerful devil; we are his sons
Got on she-furies of our Northern gales.
We hate the inheritance entailed on us
And the outlandish family coat we blazon,
The tell-tale features also; would deny
His fatherhood, but for that eye, that nose,
Betraying Galilee our Father’s land.
There’s no escape from him. Midwife Tradition
Has knotted Jesus in our navel strings
Never to be undone this side the grave.’
But that was one stage worse than blasphemy.
And when we parted, she smiled grudgingly.
I had said too much and cut her to the quick.
She thought, poor child, she had her choice to make
Between God’s way and my way. And so she chose…
This letter…But she writes of Christian love.
What is that? It’s a most annoying habit,
A warm blood-teasing smile, an open look,
A recognition – thinks I to myself,
Boy, this is fine! Love at first sight! True love!
But then the disillusionment – by God
She turns the same look of those clear kind eyes
On a bootblack, on some fool behind a counter.
She calls that, Love? But what is Love to me?
Love; it’s a two-part game, I’d say, not merely
The searching radiations from one eye,
That fly about with indiscriminate force –
Sometimes unthinking in a public place
I stare at girls sitting sideface to me
And wonder at their beauty, summing it up,
Then being innocent girls (I’d never look
At others so) they grow aware of the heat
That pours out from my eyes; but do not see me.
(I may be fifty feet away or more)
They fidget in their seats, uncross their knees,
Pull down their skirts to hide even their ankles,
Blush furiously and gaze about, in trouble;
Then I start guiltily, rise and walk away;
But that’s not Love, the searching and the heat;
Love is an act of God, akin to Faith,
Call it the union of two prayers by Faith
(Here we come back to prayer by a long circuit
And back to ‘God is Love’)
But to expl
ain again what’s Faith, what’s prayer,
That’s the teaser! much too hard for me.
Still, these are not Christian monopolies.
What’s Faith but power stripped of its ornaments,
Grants, title-deeds and suchlike accidentals;
Force won by disentangling from the mind
All hampering ties of luxury and tradition,
Possessions, loyalties and hobby-horses?
Cast all these overboard, and Faith is left,
Faith potent through its prayer to miracles,
Whether in name of Jesus or Jim Crow.
Prayer: Rachel seems to think the collects prayer,
And Mother Superior, I make no doubt,
Will teach her scores of neatly turned devotions
Couched in diminutives and pastoral terms,
(Lord, how I hate the literary prayer),
Little white lambs indeed – O baa baa black sheep
Have you any wool? – And Rachel in return
Flushing with shame impetuously confesses,
And holds half back, but crafty eyes are watching
To drag all out, so Rachel has to tell
How on the river bank one morning early
The water was so clear, the sun so warm,
She kissed me suddenly and was kissed by me –
Lip kisses, that was all, and fingers clasped.
Mother Superior then demanding further
Will cross-examine her on how and why.
‘To tell it now will mortify the passion,
Then when you make your general confession
To Father James, your mind will have found peace.’
(A good excuse) ‘What then were your sensations,
The physical joy, tell me, my erring lamb!
Tell me, I beg, but as the sin was pleasant
So must confession of the sin be pain…’
‘’Tis pity she’s a whore’. Rachel told all.
Whore, traitress to the secret rites of love,
Publisher of the not-communicable.
If she refused the vows? If her heart changed?
Rachel and I? This meek ex-novice rifled
Of her love-secrets? medals and images
Sewn in her skirts, Birmingham images
From the totem-factory, niched in her heart?
No, Love is fusion of Prayer, and prayer must be
The flash of faith, unformulated words
Demanding an accomplishment of Love
With noise of thunder, against circumstance,
And Rachel forfeits there all power to love.
Who’s this? For now the rabble have passed through,
Going unnoticed out; Mother Superior
Secretly with one finger at her lips,
Re-enters, carefully locks my bedroom door,
Now she disrobes with fingers trembling so
They tear the fastenings – naked she steps out
To practise with her long-past-bearing body
Complete Poems 3 (Robert Graves Programme) Page 18