by Stevie Smith
I knew it
No more black
Than a shadow’s back.
Illusion is a freak
Of mind;
The cat’s to seek.
Conviction (IV)
I like to get off with people,
I like to lie in their arms,
I like to be held and tightly kissed,
Safe from all alarms.
I like to laugh and be happy
With a beautiful beautiful kiss,
I tell you, in all the world
There is no bliss like this.
The Virtuoso
The portrait of my mother
In plaster lightly scored,
Has always protected me
From anything untoward;
In Manchester or Italy,
Wherever I have toured,
Upon its plinth
It beholds the zenith
Of my success on the pianoforte;
I ask no further reward,
I ask no further reward.
Villains
Profit and Batten
Had coats lined with satin,
And no wonder either,
For they never owed a stiver;
If folks owed them rent,
They owed at ten per cent.
Sing Batten and Profit
If you’ve got a hat, doff it.
Le Majeur Ydow
‘Eh bien! Marche!’, fit le Majeur Ydow,
‘Any more gentlemen like that? I’ll see them off!’
But there were no gentleman really, only the phantoms
He warred with in his perpetual tantrums.
The Little Daughters of America
Pearl Harbor, 1941
Admirals Curse-You and No-More
Set their compasses and sailed for war.
I am sorry that all the little daughters of America
Should be involved in a thing like this; upon my word.
She said …
She said as she tumbled the baby in:
There, little baby, go sink or swim,
I brought you into the world, what more should I do?
Do you expect me always to be responsible for you?
Quand on n’a pas ce que l’on aime, il faut aimer ce que l’on a –
Cold as no love, and wild with all negation –
Oh Death in Life, the lack of animation.
The Sad Heart
I never learnt to attract, you see,
And so I might as well not be,
A dreary future I see before me,
’Tis pity that ever my mother bore me.
The Conventionalist
Fourteen-year-old, why must you giggle and dote,
Fourteen-year-old, why are you such a goat?
I’m fourteen years old, that is the reason,
I giggle and dote in season.
Study to Deserve Death
Study to deserve Death, they only may
Who fought well upon their earthly day,
Who never sheathed their swords or ran away.
See, such a man as this now proudly stands,
Pale in the clasp of Death, and to his hands
Yields up the sword, but keeps the laurel bands.
Honour and emulate his warrior soul,
For whom the sonorous death-bells toll;
He after journeying has reached his goal.
Prate not to me of suicide,
Faint heart in battle, not for pride
I say Endure, but that such end denied
Makes welcomer yet the death that’s to be died.
Dirge
From a friend’s friend I taste friendship,
From a friend’s friend love,
My spirit in confusion,
Long years I strove,
But now I know that never
Nearer I shall move,
Than a friend’s friend to friendship,
To love than a friend’s love.
Into the dark night
Resignedly I go,
I am not so afraid of the dark night
As the friends I do not know,
I do not fear the night above,
As I fear the friends below.
La Speakerine de Putney
This heap of ashes was a learned girl;
Oh how the ashes shift to the words’ smoke-curl!
Blow wind, blow, blow away the frightful form, scatter
The false girl-form and the words’ mutter.
Distractions and the Human Crowd
Ormerod was deeply troubled
When he read in philosophy and religion
Of man’s lust after God,
And the knowledge of God,
And the experience of God
In the achievement of solitary communion and the loss of self.
For he said that he had known this knowledge,
And experienced this experience,
Before life and death;
But that here in temporal life, and in temporal life only, was permitted,
(As in a flaw of divine government, a voluntary recession),
A place where man might impinge upon man,
And be subject to a thousand and one idiotic distractions.
And thus it was that he found himself
Ever at issue with the Schools,
For ever more and more he pursued the distractions,
Knowing them to be ephemeral, under time, peculiar,
And in eternity, without place or puff.
Then, ah then, he said, following the tea-parties,
(And the innumerable conferences for social rearrangement),
I knew, and shall know again, the name of God, closer than close;
But now I know a stranger thing,
That never can I study too closely, for never will it come again, –
Distractions and the human crowd.
Be off!
I’m sorry to say my dear wife is a dreamer,
And as she dreams she gets paler and leaner.
‘Then be off to your Dream, with his fly-away hat,
I’ll stay with the girls who are happy and fat.’
Love Me!
Love me, Love me, I cried to the rocks and the trees,
And Love me, they cried again, but it was only to tease.
Once I cried Love me to the people, but they fled like a dream,
And when I cried Love me to my friend, she began to scream.
Oh why do they leave me, the beautiful people, and only the rocks remain,
To cry Love me, as I cry Love me, and Love me again.
On the rock a baked sea-serpent lies,
And his eyelids close tightly over his violent eyes,
And I fear that his eyes will open and confound me with a mirthless word,
That the rocks will harp on for ever, and my Love me never be heard.
The Wild Dog
The City Dog goes to the drinking trough,
He waves his tail and laughs, and goes when he has had enough.
His intelligence is on the brink
Of human intelligence. He knows the Council will give him a drink.
The Wild Dog is not such an animal,
Untouched by human kind, he is inimical,
He keeps his tail stiff, his eyes blink,
And he goes to the river when he wants a drink.
He goes to the river, he stamps on the mud,
And at night he sleeps in the dark wood.
The Heavenly City
I sigh for the heavenly country,
Where the heavenly people pass,
And the sea is as quiet as a mirror
Of beautiful beautiful glass.
I walk in the heavenly field,
With lilies and poppies bright,
I am dressed in a heavenly coat
Of polished white.
When I walk in the heavenly parkland
My feet on the pasture are bare,
Tall waves the
grass, but no harmful
Creature is there.
At night I fly over the housetops,
And stand on the bright moony beams;
Gold are all heaven’s rivers,
And silver her streams.
Lady ‘Rogue’ Singleton
Come, wed me, Lady Singleton,
And we will have a baby soon
And we will live in Edmonton
Where all the friendly people run.
I could never make you happy, darling,
Or give you the baby you want,
I would always very much rather, dear,
Live in a tent.
I am not a cold woman, Henry,
But I do not feel for you,
What I feel for the elephants and the miasmas
And the general view.
Mother
I have a happy nature,
But Mother is always sad,
I enjoy every moment of my life, –
Mother has been had.
My Heart was Full
My heart was full of softening showers,
I used to swing like this for hours,
I did not care for war or death,
I was glad to draw my breath.
Croft
Aloft,
In the loft,
Sits Croft;
He is soft.
Rencontres Funestes
I fear the ladies and gentlemen under the trees,
Could any of them make an affectionate partner and not tease? –
Oh, the affectionate sensitive mind is not easy to please.
The Film Star
Donnez à manger aux affamées
It is a film star who passes this way
He is looking so nice the women would like
To have him on a tray
Donnez à manger aux affamées.
The Bottle of Aspirins
‘I look at the bottle, when mournful I feel.’
‘C’est une ressource contre tout,’ ajouta-t-il,
(Avec le sombre gaité du pays des suicides
D’où il était), – ‘two hundred and I am freed,’
He said, ‘from anxiety.’
The Governess
The milky love of this bland child
Her governess has quite beguiled,
And now they spend the hours talking,
Sometimes winding wool and sometimes walking.
The Actress
I can’t say I enjoyed it, but the pay was good.
Oh how I weep and toil in this world of wood!
Longing in the city for the pursuit of beautiful scenery,
I earn my bread upon the Stage, amid painted greenery.
I have a poet’s mind, but a poor exterior,
What goes on inside me is superior.
The Devil-my-Wife
to the tune of ‘Golden Slumbers’
The nervous face of my dear wife
Is covered with a fearful grin,
And nods and becks
Come without checks
As the devils pop out and in.
Gush, then, gush and gabble,
Vanity is your dabble,
And in mediocrity
Is your cruelty.
The Repentance of Lady T
I look in the glass
Whose face do I see?
It is the face
Of Lady T.
I wish to change,
How can that be?
Oh Lamb of God
Change me, change me.
The Smile
When ancient girl is garbed in spite
And turns to rend, and lives to bite,
Oh what can end the marriage night?
Wait, wait (and with a smile); the dawn
Shall come again, and day return
As fair as any that has gone.
But if the nature of that smile
Be mockery, contempt and guile
Should such a one my face defile?
No! Rather let me call her – Crocodile!
Forgot!
There is a fearful solitude
Within the careless multitude,
And in the open country too,
He mused, and then it seemed to him
The solitude lay all within;
He longed for some interior din:
Some echo from the worldly rout,
To indicate a common lot,
Some charge that he might be about,
But oh he felt that he was quite forgot.
A Man I Am
I was consumed by so much hate
I did not feel that I could wait,
I could not wait for long at anyrate.
I ran into the forest wild,
I seized a little new born child,
I tore his throat, I licked my fang,
Just like a wolf. A wolf I am.
I ran wild for centuries
Beneath the immemorial trees,
Sometimes I thought my heart would freeze,
And never know a moment’s ease,
But presently the spring broke in
Upon the pastures of my sin,
My poor heart bled like anything.
The drops fell down, I knew remorse,
I tasted that primordial curse,
And falling ill, I soon grew worse.
Until at last I cried on Him,
Before whom angel faces dim,
To take the burden of my sin
And break my head beneath his wing.
Upon the silt of death I swam
And as I wept my joy began
Just like a man. A man I am.
The Broken Heart
‘Oh, Sing to me Gypsy’
He told me he loved me,
He gave me red roses,
Twelve crimson roses
As red as my blood.
The roses he gave me,
The roses are withered,
Twelve crimson roses
As red as my blood.
The roses are withered,
But here on my breast, far
Redder than they is
The red of my heart’s blood.
He told me he loved me,
He gave me red roses,
Twelve crimson roses
As red as my blood.
The White Thought
I shall be glad to be silent, Mother, and hear you speak,
You encouraged me to tell too much, and my thoughts are weak,
I shall keep them to myself for a time, and when I am older
They will shine as a white worm shines under a green boulder.
In the Night
I longed for companionship rather,
But my companions I always wished farther.
And now in the desolate night
I think only of the people I should like to bite.
The Magic Morning
The boating party
Started at dawn from Clarté.
Lightly lightly they stepped into the green boat
(The Lady Marion has left behind her golden coat)
Marion d’Arcy and Charley Dake
Were the only ones. He rowed her upon the lake.
He rowed her across the lake until the green shallows
Paled in a waxed lily litter striped with swallows.
And now the morning sun flecks the dark trees
And lightly the mauve sedge moves in a little breeze.
Charley Dake loves the ducal girl
But her eyelids flick flick upon his thoughts’ whirl.
Oh my ducal girl, cries Charley in a fit
Of love-spasm.
He is Cupid-hit.
But the Lady Marion smiles and smiles
And so they go again upon the watery miles.
‘Oh Charley, Charley, do not go upon the water’
Cries a friendly swan, ‘with the Duke’s daughter.
You wish to marry er, my boy-carrier?
you can not support er
Oh do not go with the Duke’s daughter.’
There is an island in the lake, old brick walled,
Where the laurestina climbs and is not spoiled.
What man will spoil the brick walls of their yellow brim?
Such a one as is nervy bold and grim.
(Such a one, says the swan, as has something in store for him.)
Flick, flick, the eyelids of the lady mark
Where a dark angel flies across her father’s park.
All the green grass shivers in a warning,
Flee, Charley, flee the magic morning.
But Charley is folly-blind
to the visitation
Of the dark angel of consternation.
Boldly he plucks a golden cup
Throws it in Marion’s lap and does not look up.
Ah then the thunder peals and waters bound
For who took the flower, the angel says, must be drowned.
So up rears the lake water and drags him underneath
Where in suffering he draws his last breath.
‘Never more,’ cries the swan, ‘shall Charley be seen,
He is underneath the waters of the mise-en-scène’
(And ‘Charley, Charley, Charley’ cry the swan-instructed curlews
Ever after as they fly to their nests in the purlieus).
But the ducal girl comes safe to land and takes her coat
And goes off in the likeness of a slim stoat.
Après la Politique, la Haine des Bourbons
Count Flanders
Was eaten up with pride;
His dog Sanders
Thought only of his inside.
They were a precious couple
And let the people feed on straw and rubble.
Bitter was the weather,
Bitter the people,
When they flung Count Flanders
From the church steeple.
Bitter was the weather,
Iron the ground,
When Dog Sanders died – of a stomach wound.
The Poets are Silent
There’s no new spirit abroad,
As I looked, I saw;
And I saw that it is to the poets’ merit
To be silent about the war.
The Pleasures of Friendship
The pleasures of friendship are exquisite
How pleasant to go to a friend on a visit!
I go to my friend, we walk on the grass,
And the hours and moments like minutes pass.
Happiness
Happiness is silent, or speaks equivocally for friends,
Grief is explicit and her song never ends,
Happiness is like England, and will not state a case,
Grief like Guilt rushes in and talks apace.
Lot’s Wife
‘In that rich, oil-bearing region, it is probable that Lot’s wife was turned into a pillar of asphalt – not salt.’
SIR WILLIAM WHITEBAIT, MEMBER OF THE INSTITUTE OF MINING ENGINEERS
I long for the desolate valleys,
Where the rivers of asphalt flow,
For here in the streets of the living,
Where my footsteps run to and fro,
