by Stevie Smith
The earth a-heap where smooth it should have lain;
And in and out the tombs great witches’ cats
Played tig-a-tag and sang harmoniously.
Beneath the deathly slopes the palings stood
Catching the moonlight on their painted sides,
Beyond, the waters of a mighty lake
Stretching five furlongs at its fullest length
Lay as a looking-glass, framed in a growth
Of leafless willows; all its middle part
Was open to the sky, and there I saw
Embosomed in the lake together lie
Great unaffected vampires and the moon.
A Christian crescent never would have lent
Unchristian monsters such close company
And so I say she was no heavenly light
But devil’s in that business manifest
And as the vampires seemed quite unaware
I thought she’d lost her soul for nothing lying there.
The Celts
I think of the Celts as rather a whining lady
Who was beautiful once but is not so much so now
She is not very loving, but there is one thing she loves
It is her grievance which she hugs and takes out walking.
The Celtic lady likes fighting very much for freedom
But when she had got it she is a proper tyrant
Nobody likes her much when she is governing.
The Celtic lady is not very widely popular
But the English love her oh they love her very much
Especially when the Celtic lady is Irish they love her
Which is odd as she hates them then more than anyone else.
When she’s Welsh the English stupidly associate her chiefly
With national hats, eisteddfods and Old Age Pensions.
(They don’t think of her at all when she is Scotch, it is rather a problem).
Oh the Celtic lady when she’s Irish is the one for me
Oh she is so witty and wild, my word witty,
And flashing and spiteful this Celtic lady we love
All the same she is not so beautiful as she was.
The Passing Cloud
from the Royal Bethlehem Hospital
I thought as I lay on my bed one night, I am only a passing cloud
And I wiped the tear from my sorrowful eye and merrily cried aloud
Oh the love of the Lord is a fearful thing and the love of the Lord is mine
And what do I care for the sins of men and the tears of our guilty time
I will sail my cloud in the bright blue sky, in the bright blue sky I sail
And I look at the sea so merrily swung in the path of the Arctic whale
On the tropic belt of the uttermost wild the sea rings a merry peal
And the fish leaps up and the sharks pursue in Creation’s happy reel
Oh I dance on my cloud and I cry aloud to the careless creative gust
That made us all and made the fish and the ocean that holds them fast
Hurrah hurrah for the grand old heavenly gusty creator Lord
Who said to Job, Don’t bother me son, I’ll do as a I please my word.
Oh never was happiness like to mine as I pelt along on my cloud
In the sky-blue path of the high winds’ breath, no wonder I cry aloud
With joy I cried and my cheeks were wet and the air was a singing space
And I thought as we shot to the upper reach, My lord, it’s a lick of a pace.
When we swept out of sight of the troublesome earth, was I afraid, oh no,
I was glad to see the parochial thing pack up its traps and go
And now I go round and round I go in the merry abyss of the sky
Piercing the grand primaeval dust of the stars in their infancy
I tunnel, I borrow, I offer my dust as a dust for creation’s choice
And in the ding-dong of the universe I pipe my innocent voice
I pipe my innocent voice I pipe, I pipe and I also sing
Till I’d sung too loud and woke myself up and that is another thing.
Oh I woke with a bump and they brought me here to Bethlehem’s Royal precincts
And do I care? Not I, not I, I have shed all careful instincts,
I will laugh and sing, or be dumb if they please, and await at the Lord’s discretion
The day I’ll be one, as one I’ll be, in an infinite regression
One, ha ha, with a merry ha ha, skip the fish and amoeba where are we now?
We are very far out, in a rarefied place, with the thin thin dust in a giddy chase,
The dust of Continuous Creation, and how is that for identification?
You’ll like it; you must, you know,
That merry dust does jig so.
Loin de l’Être
You don’t look at all well, quite loin de l’être in fact
Poor pale-face what’s the matter, don’t they know?
Oh they don’t know, but still I don’t feel well
Nor ever shall, my name is Loin de l’Être.
They stood on the empty terrace above the precipice
When this conversation took place
Between the affectionate but exasperated friend
And the invalid. It is not possible to be
Ill and merry, poor Loin de l’Être sighed
And forced a smile, but oh she was so tired.
So tired, called Echo, so tired.
Now pull yourself together, cried the friend
Together cried Echo,
I must leave you now for a tick, she said
Mind you don’t get edgy looking at the precipice.
The lovely invalid sighed, Loin de l’être,
And Echo taking the form of a handsome young man
Cried, Loin de l’Être and took her away with him.
Nipping Pussy’s Feet in Fun
This is not Kind
Oh Mr Pussy-Cat
My, you are sweet!
How do you get about so much
On those tiny feet?
Nip, nip; miaou, miaou,
Tiny little feet,
Nip, nip pussy-cat
My, you are sweet!
Cat Asks Mouse Out
But then Neither is This
Mrs Mouse
Come out of your house
It is a fine sunny day
And I am waiting to play.
Bring the little mice too
And we can run to and fro.
My Cat Major
Major is a fine cat
What is he at?
He hunts birds in the hydrangea
And in the tree
Major was ever a ranger
He ranges where no one can see.
Sometimes he goes up to the attic
With a hooped back
His paws hit the iron rungs
Of the ladder in a quick kick
How can this be done?
It is a knack.
Oh Major is a fine cat
He walks cleverly
And what is he at, my fine cat?
No one can see.
Parents
Parents who can barely afford it
Should not send their children to public schools ill will reward it
That skimping and saving and giving up
That seems so unselfish will buy you a pup
Oh what an ugly biting bow-wow
Well Colonel, how does it go now?
Your son aged twenty-two
wears a glittering blazer
His conversation about ponds and ducks, oh happy fool,
Is interrupted to speak of his school
As if at fault he’d allowed
Momentarily that pond to draw him from being proud.
Ah, so hardly won through to it, Colonel,
Is to attach too much importance to it.
But he’s saved; ponds, duck, fish in dark water
Have a tight hold
of him. It is your daughter
Colonel, who is wholly corrupted.
Women when they are snobbish do not loaf
Look at fish, are not oafish
But are persistently mercenary, cold, scheming and calculating,
This in a young girl is revolting.
Oh beautiful brave mother, the wife of the colonel,
How could you allow your young daughter to become aware of the scheming?
If you had not, it might have stayed a mere dreaming
Of palaces and princes, girlish at worst.
Oh to become sensible about social advance at seventeen is to be lost.
To a Lady in a Train
She is not Indian, she’s ill
’Tis Death hath darkened that pale cheek of hers,
No sun of Indian summer in a trench
Of climate tropical hath made her brown
That was so pale and fair, a northern girl.
Now look more close. That colour’s gray not brown
Death certainly hath hold of her, his fingers
Stop up the blood to blacken where it lingers
Death hath her now till gray to black shall turn.
Ah then her soul now ruffling up befeathered
In practice for the flight when Death hath done
Flying shall mock all those who stay at home
And cry: Begone,
Cast off from fleshy station,
Death untethered,
To heaven flown.
Seeing her now this day so soon to go
I would go too
And I say true,
If being Indian not ill had put it on
I should not so much envy her complexion.
Adelaide Abner
Adelaide Abner is cruel
She is grown into a cruel beast
She does not ask me to her parties now
She wants to be first at the feast.
But oh the parties were so beautiful
And I did not monopolize the faces
I was only happy to be delivered for a time
From silence.
Silence at depth is cold
It is misty and full of pain
And because of Adelaide Abner’s cruelty
I am in silence again.
Then the girl knelt down and repented
Of what she had said about Adelaide,
Was I a true friend? she wondered,
Yes, I was a true friend, she said.
I was looking for a venial motive,
Vanity might change like the weather,
But oh her heart is cold
And so it is goodbye for ever.
The English
Many of the English,
The intelligent English,
Of the Arts, the Professions and the Upper Middle Classes,
Are under-cover men,
But what is under the cover
(That was original)
Died; now they are corpse-carriers.
It is not noticeable, but be careful,
They are infective.
King Hamlet’s Ghost
‘It would be spoke to.’
Poor noble Ghost that comes from place of pain
Of so much pain and foul and fiery,
To tread again in mournful armour clad
Thy soft gray fields upon a winter’s night
Thou wouldst be spoke to, for unless one speaks
Thou canst not; must be spoke to then or go
Unheard, uncomforted to Misery.
I pity thy royal brow, thy temper too,
Thy crownèd brow and the sharp savagery
That, when thy son had spoke, found out in words
A long expression of revengefulness,
‘Kill, kill the murderers’. All those who go
In midnight fields of melancholy thought
Where friends pass distantly and do not speak
May cry ‘Kill, kill’ for they are murdered too
As set upon by Silence and quite killed.
‘Speak, speak to us’ they cry, ‘I would be spoke to’
But oh the friends speak not, they have too much to do.
At School
a Paolo and Francesca situation but more hopeful, say in Purgatory
At school I always walk with Elwyn
Walk with Elwyn all the day
Oh my darling darling Elwyn
We shall never go away.
This school is a most curious place
Everything happens faintly
And the other boys and girls who are here
We cannot see distinctly.
All the day I walk with Elwyn
And sometimes we also ride
Both of us would really always
Rather be outside.
Most I like to ride with Elwyn
In the early morning sky
Under the solitary mosses
That hang from the trees awry.
The wind blows cold then
And the wind comes to the dawn
And we ride silently
And kiss as we ride down.
Oh my darling darling Elwyn
Oh what a sloppy love is ours
Oh how this sloppy love sustains me
When we come back to the school bars.
There are bars round this school
And inside the lights are always burning bright
And yet there are shadows
That belong rather to the night than to the light.
Oh my darling darling Elwyn
Why is there this dusty heat in this closed school?
All the radiators must be turned full on
Surely that is against the rules?
Hold my hand as we run down the long corridors
Arched over with tombs
We are underground now a long way
Look out, we are getting close to the boiler room.
We are not driven harshly to the lessons you know
That go on under the electric lights
That go on persistently, patiently you might say,
They do not mind if we are not very bright.
Open this door quick, Elwyn, it is break-time
And if we ride quickly we can come to the sea-pool
And swim; will not that be a nice thing to do?
Oh my darling do not look so sorrowful.
Oh why do we cry so much
Why do we not go to some place that is nice?
Why do we only stand close
And lick the tears from each other’s eyes?
Darling, my darling
You are with me in the school and in the dead trees’ glade
If you were not with me
I should be afraid.
Fear not the ragged dawn skies
Fear not the heat of the boiler room
Fear not the sky where it flies
The jagged clouds in their rusty colour.
Do not tell me not to cry my love
The tears run down your face too
There is still half an hour left
Can we not think of something to do?
There goes the beastly bell
Tolling us to lessons
If I do not like this place much
That bell is the chief reason.
Oh darling Elwyn love
Our tears fall down together
It is because of the place we’re in
And because of the weather.
Can it Be?
Can it be, can it be
That beasts are of various bravery,
Some brave by nature, some not at all,
Some trying to be against a fall?
I saw a cat. Beside a lily tank,
Paved level with the grass, she stood, this cat,
Considering her leap.
Three times she backed for jumping, gathered tight
(So tight, thought landed her already over)
And did not jump. And then,
; After a pause, as scolding humanly
‘Not nervy, eh? We’ll see.’
She jumped. And what a jump that was!
Quite twice as long
And high
As it need be,
Now why
Did this cat jump at all, so force herself?
There was a path around the tank,
She could have walked.
Can it be, can it be
That beasts are of various bravery,
Some simply brave, some not, some taking thought
(Most curiously) to cast themselves aloft?
The Old Sweet Dove of Wiveton
’Twas the voice of the sweet dove
I heard him move
I heard him cry
Love, love.
High in the chestnut tree
In the nest of the old dove
And there he sits solitary
Crying, Love, love.
The gray of this heavy day
Makes the green of the trees’ leaves and the grass brighter
And the flowers of the chestnut tree whiter
And whiter the flowers of the high cow-parsley.
So still is the air
So heavy the sky
You can hear the splash
Of the water falling from the green grass
As Red and Honey push by,
The old dogs,
Gone away, gone hunting by the marsh bogs.
Happy the retriever dogs in their pursuit
Happy in bog-mud the busy foot.
Now all is silent, it is silent again
In the sombre day and the beginning soft rain
It is a silence made more actual
By the moan from the high tree that is occasional,
Where in his nest above
Still sits the old dove,
Murmuring solitary
Crying for pain,
Crying most melancholy
Again and again.
The Past
People who are always praising the past
And especially the times of faith as best
Ought to go and live in the Middle Ages
And be burnt at the stake as witches and sages.
The Singing Cat
It was a little captive cat
Upon a crowded train
His mistress takes him from his box
To ease his fretful pain.
She holds him tight upon her knee
The graceful animal
And all the people look at him
He is so beautiful.
But oh he pricks and oh he prods
And turns upon her knee
Then lifteth up his innocent voice
In plaintive melody.
He lifteth up his innocent voice
He lifteth up, he singeth
And to each human countenance
A smile of grace he bringeth.
He lifteth up his innocent paw
Upon her breast he clingeth
And everybody cries, Behold
The cat, the cat that singeth.
He lifteth up his innocent voice
