by Stevie Smith
Is it not interesting to see
How the Christians continually
Try to separate themselves in vain
From the doctrine of eternal pain.
They cannot do it,
They are committed to it,
Their Lord said it,
They must believe it.
So the vulnerable body is stretched without pity
On flames for ever. Is this not pretty?
The religion of Christianity
Is mixed of sweetness and cruelty
Reject this Sweetness, for she wears
A smoky dress out of hell fires.
Who makes a God? Who shows him thus?
It is the Christian religion does,
Oh, oh, have none of it
Blow it away, have done with it.
This god the Christians show
Out with him, out with him, let him go.
Recognition not Enough
Sin recognised – but that – may keep us humble,
But oh, it keeps us nasty.
Was He Married?
Was he married, did he try
To support as he grew less fond of them
Wife and family?
No,
He never suffered such a blow.
Did he feel pointless, feeble and distrait,
Unwanted by everyone and in the way?
From his cradle he was purposeful,
His bent strong and his mind full.
Did he love people very much
Yet find them die one day?
He did not love in the human way.
Did he ask how long it would go on,
Wonder if Death could be counted on for an end?
He did not feel like this,
He had a future of bliss.
Did he never feel strong
Pain for being wrong?
He was not wrong, he was right,
He suffered from others’, not his own, spite.
But there is no suffering like having made a mistake
Because of being of an inferior make.
He was not inferior,
He was superior.
He knew then that power corrupts but some must govern?
His thoughts were different.
Did he lack friends? Worse,
Think it was for his fault, not theirs?
He did not lack friends,
He had disciples he moulded to his ends.
Did he feel over-handicapped sometimes, yet must draw even?
How could he feel like this? He was the King of Heaven.
… find a sudden brightness one day in everything
Because a mood had been conquered, or a sin?
I tell you, he did not sin.
Do only human beings suffer from the irritation
I have mentioned? learn too that being comical
Does not ameliorate the desperation?
Only human beings feel this,
It is because they are so mixed.
All human beings should have a medal,
A god cannot carry it, he is not able.
A god is Man’s doll, you ass,
He makes him up like this on purpose.
He might have made him up worse.
He often has, in the past.
To choose a god of love, as he did and does,
Is a little move then?
Yes, it is.
A larger one will be when men
Love love and hate hate but do not deify them?
It will be a larger one.
Was it not curious?
Was it not curious of Aúgustin
Saint Aúgustin, Saint Aúgustin,
When he saw the beautiful British children
To say such a curious thing?
He said he must send the gospel, the gospel,
At once to them over the waves
He never said he thought it was wicked
To steal them away for slaves
To steal the children away
To buy and have slavery at all
Oh no, oh no, it was not a thing
That caused him any appal.
Was it not curious of Gregory
Rather more than of Aúgustin?
It was not curious so much
As it was wicked of them.
The Frozen Lake
To a mere
Sir Bedevere
Consigned Excalibur
White and silent is the snowflake
Falling, falling, and it will make
Soon all flat and like a white lake
In a white and silent state
Beaming flat and vacant.
Underneath the frozen water
Steps the Lord of Ullan’s daughter
She is a witch of endless might
And rules the borders of the night.
So however white and silent
Seems the lake, it is not vacant
But contains Lord Ullan’s daughter
Walking as her Uncle taught her.
Her Uncle is a greater sage
At witchcraft than the lady is
But he has gone, one knows not where
And so his niece only is here.
No, this water is not vacant
But is full of deep intent
Of deep intent and management
Contrived by Ullan’s daughter
To what end I know not.
And to my mind the lake is brighter
For the lady’s presence; whiter
Though its coat of winter make it
It is for Ullan’s daughter’s sake it
Beams to me so brightly.
Often as I gaze upon it
Tread upon the ice upon it
I can feel the water shiver
As the lady with a slither
Comes to tap the ice, to tear it,
Yes, I think that I can hear it
Tapped and tickled with her fingers
Where a floe in splinter lingers
Where I cannot come.
But I swear I hear her, seem to
See her face that seems to beam to
Me that hovers half-enchanted
Yes I hover half-enchanted
Wondering if I am wanted
Beckoned by her smile or threatened,
And as always, so today
As I stand and wonder, Ullan’s daughter
Goes away.
To a mere
Sir Bedevere
Consigned Excalibur
And who is this who now comes here?
It is Sir Bedevere.
This afternoon Sir Bedevere
Found me hesitating by
The icy lake, and he said: ‘Sir,
Where lies the sword Excalibur?’
I answered with a lie:
‘It must be in some other mere.’
And then I said, ‘I truly love her,
Love the Lord of Ullan’s daughter.’
And so I answered with a lie
As I can only think of her.
‘Oh shall I go beneath the water
Where she walks, or wait for her?
Tell me, Sir Bedevere,
Shall I wait here for her?’
He looked at me, but did not say
A word, then he too went away.
And so they go. I am alone,
The white lake beams beneath the moon,
O dear white lake, O dearest love
That will not show yourself above
The bitter ice, but leave me here
To be annoyed by Bedevere,
I come, I come. And then I dived
Into the lake, but through my side
As I went down to seek for her
There passed the sword Excalibur,
In cold and silence seek for her,
The sword sunk in the mere,
And so I died, and the lake-water
That holds the form of Ullan’s daughter
With all my blood is
dyed,
Is dyed,
With all my love is dyed.
Poor Soul, poor Girl!
a débutante
I cannot imagine anything nicer
Than to be struck by lightning and killed suddenly crossing a field
As if somebody cared.
Nobody cares whether I am alive or dead.
From the French (1)
Indolent youth,
Drawn by everything in turn,
By not being decided enough
I lost my life.
Admire Cranmer!
Admire the old man, admire him, admire him,
Mocked by the old priests of Mary Tudor, given to the flames,
Flinching and overcoming the flinching, Cranmer.
Admire the martyrs of Bloody Mary’s reign,
In the shocking arithmetic of cruel average, ninety
A year, three-hundred; admire them.
But still I cry: Admire the Archbishop,
The old man, the scholar, admire him.
Not simply, for flinching and overcoming simply,
But for his genius, admire him,
His delicate feelings of genius, admire him,
That wrote the Prayer Book
(Admire him!)
And made the flames burn crueller. Admire Cranmer!
Votaries of Both Sexes Cry First to Venus
Crying for pleasure,
Crying for pain,
Longing to see you
Again and again.
But one stood up and said: I love
The love that comes in the dark fields,
In the late night, in the hot breathless dark night;
In the moony forest, when there is a moon,
In the moony rides of the dark forest.
I love this love; it is eerie if there is not
My love in my arms then. It is an excitement
In the arms of a person. It is exciting then,
It is such an excitement as is on the approach
Of Death: it is my love in my arms, and then
The trees and the dark trees and the soft grass and the moon
Are not arrogant, as they are if I am alone,
Not a measure, a great measure of indifference, not arrogant
Or in their way exciting either in a way that is too much.
Here this person standing up before Venus wept
And wept, and the tears of this person were warm
And this person then said: There is no love in my arms
No sweet person I love in my arms, and the tears
And the soft strong feelings I parade underneath the trees,
I lay them down; on the soft dark green grass I lay down
My strong feelings. They are for you to eat up, Venus,
But you do not care for them much. Then they are
For the god who created me. Let him have them.
Then this person began to laugh and dance
And Venus was offended; but behind Venus there came
First a little light, then some laughter, then a hand
That took up the great feelings, and then a blessing fell
Like the moon, and there was not any Venus any longer
But the votaries were not abashed, they were blessed.
Crying for pleasure,
Crying for pain,
Longing to see you
Again and again.
Yes this time when they sang their song they were blessed.
From the French (2)
‘We shall never be one mummy only
Beneath the antique deserts and the happy palms.’
I Was so Full …
I was so full of love and joy
There was not enough people to love,
So I said: Let there be God,
Then there was God above.
I was so full of anger and hate
To be hated was not enough people,
So I said: Let there be a Devil to hate,
Then down below was the Devil.
These persons have worked very much in my mind
And by being not true, have made me unkind,
So now I say: Away with them, away; we should
Not believe fairy stories if we wish to be good.
Think of them as persons from the fairy wood.
From the Italian
an old superstition
A woolly dog,
A red-haired man,
Better dead
Than to have met ’em.
God Speaks
I made Man with too many flaws. Yet I love him.
And if he wishes, I have a home above for him.
I should like him to be happy. I am genial.
He should not paint me as if I were abominable.
As for instance, that I had a son and gave him for their salvation.
This is one of the faults I meant. It leads to nervous prostration.
All the same, there is a difficulty. I should like him to be happy in heaven here,
But he cannot come by wishing. Only by being already at home here.
Edmonton, thy cemetery …
Edmonton, thy cemetery
In which I love to tread
Has roused in me a dreary thought
For all the countless dead,
Ah me, the countless dead.
Yet I believe that one is one
And shall for ever be,
And while I hold to this belief
I walk, oh cemetery,
Thy footpaths happily.
And I believe that two and two
Are but an earthly sum
Whose totalling has no part at all
In heavenly kingdom-come,
I love the dead, I cry, I love
Each happy happy one.
Till Doubt returns with a dreary face
And fills my heart with dread
For all the tens and tens and tens
That must make up a hundred,
And I begin to sing with him
As if Belief has never been
Ah me, the countless dead, ah me
The countless countless dead.
My Muse
My Muse sits forlorn
She wishes she had not been born
She sits in the cold
No word she says is ever told.
Why does my Muse only speak when she is unhappy?
She does not, I only listen when I am unhappy
When I am happy I live and despise writing
For my Muse this cannot be but dispiriting.
THE FROG PRINCE AND OTHER POEMS (1966)
The Frog Prince
I am a frog
I live under a spell
I live at the bottom
Of a green well
And here I must wait
Until a maiden places me
On her royal pillow
And kisses me
In her father’s palace.
The story is familiar
Everybody knows it well
But do other enchanted people feel as nervous
As I do? The stories do not tell,
Ask if they will be happier
When the changes come
As already they are fairly happy
In a frog’s doom?
I have been a frog now
For a hundred years
And in all this time
I have not shed many tears,
I am happy, I like the life,
Can swim for many a mile
(When I have hopped to the river)
And am for ever agile.
And the quietness,
Yes, I like to be quiet
I am habituated
To a quiet life,
But always when I think these thoughts
As I sit in my well
Another thought comes to me and says:
It is part of the spell
To be happy
To work up contentment
&n
bsp; To make much of being a frog
To fear disenchantment
Says, It will be heavenly
To be set free,
Cries, Heavenly the girl who disenchants
And the royal times, heavenly,
And I think it will be.
Come then, royal girl and royal times,
Come quickly,
I can be happy until you come
But I cannot be heavenly,
Only disenchanted people
Can be heavenly.
Tenuous and Precarious
Tenuous and Precarious
Were my guardians,
Precarious and Tenuous,
Two Romans.
My father was Hazardous,
Hazardous,
Dear old man,
Three Romans.
There was my brother Spurious,
Spurious Posthumous,
Spurious was spurious
Was four Romans.
My husband was Perfidious,
He was perfidious,
Five Romans.
Surreptitious, our son,
Was surreptitious,
He was six Romans.
Our cat Tedious
Still lives,
Count not Tedious
Yet.
My name is Finis,
Finis, Finis,
I am Finis,
Six, five, four, three, two,
One Roman,
Finis.
A House of Mercy
It was a house of female habitation,
Two ladies fair inhabited the house,
And they were brave. For although Fear knocked loud
Upon the door, and said he must come in,
They did not let him in.
There were also two feeble babes, two girls,
That Mrs S. had by her husband had,
He soon left them and went away to sea,
Nor sent them money, nor came home again
Except to borrow back
Her Naval Officer’s Wife’s Allowance from Mrs S.
Who gave it him at once, she thought she should.
There was also the ladies’ aunt
And babes’ great aunt, a Mrs Martha Hearn Clode,
And she was elderly.
These ladies put their money all together
And so we lived.
I was the younger of the feeble babes
And when I was a child my mother died
And later Great Aunt Martha Hearn Clode died
And later still my sister went away.
Now I am old I tend my mother’s sister
The noble aunt who so long tended us,
Faithful and True her name is. Tranquil.
Also Sardonic. And I tend the house.
It is a house of female habitation
A house expecting strength as it is strong
A house of aristocratic mould that looks apart
When tears fall; counts despair
Derisory. Yet it has kept us well. For all its faults,
If they are faults, of sternness and reserve,
It is a Being of warmth I think; at heart
A house of mercy.
The Best Beast of the Fat-Stock Show at Earls Court
in monosyllables
The Best Beast of the Show
