Archives: Poems

Petrolio, vaunting his Mercedes’ power,
Vows she can cover eighty miles an hour.
I tried the car of old and know she can.
But dare he ever make her? Ask his man!

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Hastily Adam our driver swallowed a curse in the darkness—
Petrol nigh at end and something wrong with a sprocket
Made him speer for the nearest town, when lo! at the crossways
Four blank letterless arms the virginal signpost extended.
“Look!” thundered Hugh the Radical. “This is the England we boast of—
Bland, white-bellied, obese, but utterly useless for business.
They are repainting the signs and have left the job in the middle.
They are repainting the signs and traffic may stop till they’ve done it,
Which is to say: till the son-of-a-gun of a local contractor,
Having laboriously wiped out every name for
Probably thirty miles round, be minded to finish his labour!
Had not the fool the sense to paint out and paint in together?” 

Thus, not seeing his speech belied his Radical Gospel
(Which is to paint out the earth and then write “Damn” on the shutter),
Hugh embroidered the theme imperially and stretched it
From some borough in Wales through our Australian possessions,
Making himself, reformer-wise, a bit of a nuisance
Till, with the help of Adam, we cast him out on the landscape.

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 "Gesture . . . outlook . . . vision . . . avenue . . . 
example . . . achievement. . . appeasement. . .
limit of risk. COMMON POLITICAL FORM." 


We know the Rocket’s upward whizz;
  We know the Boom before the Bust.
We know the whistling Wail which is
  The Stick returning to the Dust.
  We know how much to take on trust
Of any promised Paradise.
  We know the Pie—likewise the Crust.
We know the Bonfire on the Ice. 

We know the Mountain and the Mouse.
  We know Great Cry and Little Wool.
We know the purseless Ears of Sows.
  We know the Frog that aped the Bull.
  We know, whatever Trick we pull,
(Ourselves have gambled once or twice)
  A Bobtailed Flush is not a Full.
We know the Bonfire on the Ice. 

We know that Ones and Ones make Twos—
  Till Demos votes them Three or Nought.
We know the Fenris Wolf is loose.
   We know what Fight has not been fought.
   We know the Father to the Thought
Which argues Babe and Cockatrice
  Would play together, were they taught.
We know that Bonfire on the Ice. 

We know that Thriving comes by Thrift.
  We know the Key must keep the Door.
We know his Boot-straps cannot lift
  The frightened Waster off the Floor.
  We know these things, and we deplore
That not by any Artifice
  Can they be altered. Furthermore
We know the Bonfires on the Ice!

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1                                                                         
Beyond the path of the outmost sun, through utter darkness hurled -
Further than ever comet flared or vagrant star dust swirled -
Live such as sailed and fought and ruled and loved and made our world.
2                                                                         
They are purged of pride because they died, they know the worth of their bays;
They sit at wine with the Maidens Nine and the Gods of the Elder Days;
It is their will to serve or be still as fitteth Our Father's praise.
3                                                                         
'Tis theirs to sweep through Azrael's keep, where the clanging legions are,
To buffet a path through the Pit's red wrath when God goes forth to war,
Or hang with the reckless Seraphim on the rein of a red-maned star.
4                                                                         
They take their mirth in the joy of the Earth, they do not grieve for her pain;
They know of toil and the end of toil; they know God's Law is plain;
So they whistle the Devil to make them sport who know that sin is vain.
5                                                                         
And oft-times cometh our wise Lord God, Master of every trade,
And tells them tales of his daily toil, of Edens newly made;
And they rise to their feet as He passes by, gentlemen unafraid.
6                                                                         
To those who are cleansed of black Desire, Sorrow, and Lust, and Shame -
Gods for they knew the heart of men, men for they stooped to Fame -
To these, a peer 'mid his courtly peers, the Curate of Meudon came.
7                                                                         
'I have fished for frogs in the stagnant dark, and here is my catch' quoth he,
'The Soul of a little Lawyer Clerk that whines like an angry bee,
'Brethren all' -and they saw it crawl in the open palm released -
'This bug hath flown from a New Sorbonne to call me a filthy priest.'
8
'Yea, it must turn to a guild to learn the nature of right and wrong,
And wear its Soul at its buttonhole, and finger it all day long,
And lose its Soul if a gypsy troll the catch of a lewd old song.'
9        
He flipped the Blind Bug into the dark, and grinned Gargantua's grin: 
The Great Gods heaved them back, and laughed till Heaven shook to the din -
And O, to have heard the Great Gods laugh, I had sinned the Blind Bug's sin.

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The miracle of our land's speech - so known
And long received, none marvel when 'tis shown!

We have such wealth as Rome at her most pride
Had not or (having) scattered not so wide;
Nor with such arrant prodigality,
Beneath her any pagan's foot let lie . . .
Lo! Diamond that cost some half their days
To find and t'other half to bring to blaze:
Rubies of every heat, wherethrough we scan
The fiercer and more fiery heart of man:
Emerald that with the uplifted billow vies,
And Sapphires evening remembered skies:
Pearl perfect, as immortal tears must show,
Bred, in deep waters, of a piercing woe;
And tender Turkis, so with charms y-writ,
Of woven gold, Time dares not bite on it.
Thereafter, in all manners worked and set,
Jade, coral, amber, crystal ivories, jet,—
Showing no more than various fancies, yet
Each a Life's token or Love's amulet . . .
Which things, through timeless arrogance of use,
We neither guard nor garner, but abuse;
So that our scholars—nay, our children—fling
In sport or jest treasure to arm a King;
And the gross crowd, at feast or market, hold
Traffic perforce with dust of gems and gold!

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1 
 Ah! What avails the classic bent
  And what the cultured word,
Against the undoctored incident
  That actually occurred?
2 
And what is Art whereto we press
  Through paint and prose and rhyme–
When Nature in her nakedness
  Defeats us every time?
3 
It is not learning, grace nor gear,
  Nor easy meat and drink,
But bitter pinch of pain and fear
  That makes creation think.
4 
When in this world's unpleasing youth
  Our godlike race began,
The longest arm, the sharpest tooth,
  Gave man control of man;
5 
Till, bruised and bitten to the bone
  And taught by pain and fear,
He learned to deal the far-off stone,
  And poke the long, safe spear.
6 
So tooth and nail were obsolete
  As means against a foe
Till, bored by uniform defeat,
  Some genius built the bow.
7 
Then stone and javelin proved as vain
  As old-time tooth and nail;
Till, spurred anew by fear and pain,
  Man fashioned coats of mail.
8 
Then was there safety for the rich
  And danger for the poor,
Till someone mixed a powder which
  Redressed the scale once more.
9 
Helmet and armour disappeared
   With sword and bow and pike,
And, when the smoke of battle cleared,
  All men were armed alike . . . .
10 
And when ten million such were slain
  To please one crazy king,
Man, schooled in bulk by fear and pain,
  Grew weary of the thing;
11 
And, at the very hour designed,
  To enslave him past recall,
His tooth-stone-arrow-gun-shy mind
  Turned and abolished all.
12 
All Power, each Tyrant, every Mob
  Whose head has grown too large,
Ends by destroying its own job
  And works its own discharge;
13 
And Man, whose mere necessities
   Move all things from his path,
Trembles meanwhile at their decrees,
  And deprecates their wrath!

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••QUEEN VICTORIA

    "Gay go up and gay go down
          To ring the Bells of London Town."
     When London Town's asleep in bed
     You'll hear the Bells ring overhead.
          In excelsis gloria!
          Ringing for Victoria,
     Ringing for their mighty mistress–ten years dead!

     THE BELLS: 
     Here is more gain than Gloriana guessed–
  Than Gloriana guessed or Indies bring–
Than golden Indies bring. A Queen confessed–
  A Queen confessed that crowned her people King.
     Her people King, and crowned all Kings above,
 Above all Kings have crowned their Queen their love–
     Have crowned their love their Queen, their Queen their love!

     Denying her, we do ourselves deny,
  Disowning her are we ourselves disowned.
 Mirror was she of our fidelity,
  And handmaid of our destiny enthroned;
     The very marrow of Youth's dream, and still
     Yoke-mate of wisest Age that worked her will!

     Our fathers had declared to us her praise–
   Her praise the years had proven past all speech.
 And past all speech our loyal hearts always,
   Always our hearts lay open, each to each–
  Therefore men gave the treasure of their blood
 To this one woman–for she understood!
     
     Four o'the clock! Now all the world is still.
     Oh, London Bells, to all the world declare
     The Secret of the Empire–read who will!
     The Glory of the People–touch who dare!

  THE BELLS:
  Power that has reached itself all kingly powers,
    St. Margaret's:  By love o'erpowered–
    St. Martin's:  By love o'erpowered–
    St. Clement Danes:  By love o'erpowered,
                      The greater power confers!

THE BELLS:
  For we were hers, as she, as she was ours,
    Bow Bells:  And she was ours–
    St. Paul's:  And she was ours–
    Westminister:  And she was ours,
                       As we, even we, were hers!

THE BELLS:
  As we were hers!

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1 
They christened my brother of old—
       And a saintly name he bears—
They gave him his place to hold
       At the head of the belfry-stairs,
       Where the minister-towers stand
And the breeding kestrels cry.
       Would I change with my brother a league inland?
(Shoal!   'Ware shoal!)   Not I!
2 
In the flush of the hot June prime,
       O'er sleek flood-tides afire,
I hear him hurry the chime
       To the bidding of checked Desire;
       Till the sweated ringers tire
And the wild bob-majors die.
       Could I wait for my turn in the godly choir?
(Shoal!   'Ware shoal!)   Not I!
3 
When the smoking scud is blown—
       When the greasy wind-rack lowers—
Apart and at peace and alone,
        He counts the changeless hours.
       He wars with darkling Powers
(I war with a darkling sea);
       Would he stoop to my work in the gusty mirk?
(Shoal!   'Ware shoal!)   Not he!
4 
There was never a priest to pray
       There was never a hand to toll,
When they made me guard of the bay,
       And moored me over the shoal.     
       I rock, I reel, and I roll—
My four great hammers ply—
        Could I speak or be still at the Church's will?
(Shoal!   'Ware shoal!)   Not I!
5 
The landward marks have failed,
       The fog-bank glides unguessed,
The seaward lights are veiled,
       The spent deep feigns her rest:
       But my ear is laid to her breast,
I lift to the swell—I cry!
       Could I wait in sloth on the Church's oath?
(Shoal!   'Ware shoal!)   Not I!
6 
At the careless end of night
       I thrill to the nearing screw;
I turn in the clearing light
       And I call to the drowsy crew;     
       And the mud boils foul and blue   
As the blind bow backs away.      
       Will they give me their thanks if they clear the banks?
(Shoal!   'Ware shoal!)   Not they!      
7 
The beach-pools cake and skim,   
       The bursting spray-heads freeze,  
I gather on crown and rim    
       The grey, grained ice of the seas,      
       Where, sheathed from bitt to trees,   
The plunging colliers lie. 
       Would I barter my place for the Church's grace?
(Shoal!   'Ware shoal!)   Not I!  
8 
Through the blur of the whirling snow,   
       Or the black of the inky sleet,                
The lanterns gather and grow,
       And I look for the homeward fleet.   
       Rattle of block and sheet—
"Ready about-stand by!"
       Shall I ask them a fee ere they fetch the quay?
(Shoal!   'Ware shoal!)   Not I!
9 
I dip and I surge and I swing
       In the rip of the racing tide,
By the gates of doom I sing,
       On the horns of death I ride.
       A ship-length overside,
Between the course and the sand,
       Fretted and bound I bide
               Peril whereof I cry.
       Would I change with my brother a league inland?
(Shoal!   'Ware shoal!)   Not I!

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Lo! What is this that I make—sudden, supreme, unrehearsed—
    This that my clutch in the crowd pressed at a venture has raised?
Forward and onward I sprang when I thought (as I ought) I reversed,
     And a cab like a martagon opes and I sit in the wreckage dazed. 

And someone is taking my name, and the driver is rending the air
    With cries for my blood and my gold, and a snickering news-boy brings
My cap, wheel-pashed from the kerb. I must run her home for repair,
    Where she leers with her bonnet awry—flat on the nether springs!

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