by Stevie Smith
I stood knee-deep in the sea
I saw gods coming towards me
All came and kissed, all kissed
It was for friendship.
It was a hot day
The sea
Lapped to my knees
And kissed me.
All the gods were old friends
I knew them from long ago
They kissed me each after each and went
In friendship.
Kissed me on the lips
Held me to them
Set me again in the knee-deep sea
And went, in friendship.
Then came out drawing a boat after him
He set me in the boat
He set me on his knees in the boat, kissing me.
It was not for friendship.
Oh how happy this day was
All day in his arms I was,
But not for friendship.
A little breeze drew now from the land
Bringing a smell of poppies
And on his head, was poppies
And in his hand, poppies
And on his lips when he kissed me
A taste of poppies.
Sleep or Death, Sleep or Death kissed me,
Not for friendship.
You do not kiss one for friendship?
No, for welcome,
To welcome one home.
Lord Say-and-Seal
Lord Say-and-Seal, Lord Say-and-Seal
Why not for once say and reveal
All the dark thoughts your words go over
To make a pretty bog-hole cover.
The Days of Yore
What pleased him more
Than anything else
Was the resemblance he bore
To the Prince of Wales,
To the Prince of Wales
And more and more
As the Prince of Wales was
In the days of yore.
Pearl
to an American lady poet committing suicide because of not being appreciated enough
Then cried the American poet where she lay supine:
‘My name is Purrel; I was caast before swine.’
Yes, I know
The pale face stretches across the centuries
It is so subtle and yielding; yet innocent,
Her name is Lucretia Borgia.
Yes, I know. I knew her brother Cesare
Once. But only for a short time.
Widowhood
or
The Home-Coming of Lady Ross
her husband, the Lord of the Isles, is dead, and she lives alone by the sea
Nobody hears me, nobody sees me,
My father, the General, used to say
He had only to come into a room
For everybody else to go out for it.
(‘Ach, wie schrecklich, so alt zu sein,
Und diese schrecklichen Tränensäcke,
Als wenn sie viel geweint hätte!’
Said the young girl to her friend,
In her hotel at Baden.)
My heart is a frozen lump,
I look forward to nothing but Death,
I am glad Harold is not here
To see me now.
(‘Oh how awful, to be so old,
And those awful tear-tracks on her cheeks,
As if she had cried a lot!’
Said the young girl to her friend
In the hotel at Cheltenham.)
Harold loved the hotel at Baden and the hotel at Cheltenham
He loved staying in hotels, he loved staying in ’em.
Now I live alone by the sea
And I am happy as never I used to be,
Harold, can you forgive me?
My family were never much good in company.
That’s what you used to say, dear, do you remember, when I stayed in my room
In the hotel at Baden, or wherever it might be, Up you would come
Rushing, and kiss me and cry: Rhoda, your family,
I must say, are not much good in company.
Oh Harold, our house looks so beautiful today,
Why did you always want to go away?
Voice from the Tomb (1)
nightmare, after reading the Parable of the Talents
Here lies a poet who would not write
His soul runs screaming through the night
Oh give me paper, give me pen,
And I will very soon begin.
Poor Soul, keep silent; in Death’s clime
There’s no pen, paper, notion,
And no Time.
Voice from the Tomb (2)
to the tune ‘From Greenland’s icy mountains’
(Hymns Ancient and Modern)
I trod a foreign path, dears,
The silence was extreme
And so it came about, dears,
That I fell into dream,
That I feel into my dream, my dear,
And feelings beyond cause,
And tears without a reason
And so was lost.
Voice from the Tomb (3)
Such evidence I have of indifference
Were surely enough to break the coldest heart,
But this heart is not cold, it never has been cold,
It never, never, never has been cold.
Voice from the Tomb (4)
I died for lack of company
Did my dear friends not know?
Oh why would they not speak to me
Yet said they loved me so?
Voice from the Tomb (5)
a Soul earthbound by the grievance of never having been important
You never heard of me, I dare
Say. Well, I’m here.
The Dedicated Dancing Bull and the Water Maid
Beethoven’s Sonata in F, Op. 17, for Horn and Piano, played by Dennis Brain and Denis Matthews
Hop hop, thump thump,
Oh I am holy, oh I am plump,
A young bull dancing on the baked grass glade,
And beside me dances the Water Maid.
She says I must dance with her,
Why should I? I loathe her,
She has such a stupid way of singing
It does not amount to anything,
But she thinks it does, oh yes
She does not suppose she is spurious.
I wish I could be rid of the Water Maid
Or hid from her. Does she think she can make me afraid?
Ho ho, thump thump,
Oh I am elegant, oh I am plump,
As I wave my head my feet go thud
On the baked grass. Oh I am good.
Now night comes and I go into the wood shades
And the moon comes up and lights them as the day fades.
Hop hop, faster faster,
Thump thump, but the Maid comes after,
She is teasing me by singing with a stupid sound
That does not go at all well with my bound,
Oh how I should like to tread her in the ground.
But I must think only about my feet
And remember to bring them down on the beat.
Hoo hoo, now I sing through my nose,
Hoo hoo, and off the Maid goes
A little way in an affected flutter
Pretending to be startled by the hoo of my deep mutter.
Hoo, then, hoo, with a hop and a jump
Who is this beautiful young animal who is so plump?
Why is it our famous dedicated dancing bull,
Did you notice how delicately he goes?
Was that a hoof somewhere in those silver toes?
With nonsense
The Water Maid makes off into the distance.
The night is mine now and I come to the forest pool
And drink and do not think I am a fool.
Night Thoughts
There were thoughts that came to Phil
And Oh they made him feel quite ill,
They were so envious and b
itter,
He wished he could have something sweeter,
But still he felt it was all right
As long as they only came by night.
He thought about his job … so dull
And poorly paid; all that was awful,
And then his girl, he loved her very much,
Only she did not seem to love him quite so much.
As for friends – Phil groaned aloud,
His thoughts drove in like a night-cloud,
But still it was night, and so he felt
It was just something that could not be helped.
The thoughts however by now were single-minded,
They did not fuss or beat around it,
They simply tried to find a way
To make it seem they came by day.
When at last they succeeded in doing this
Poor Phil adopted a most peculiar neurosis,
He summoned up a picture of shallow sea-water
And in it he paddled, he was a sea-walker.
On an empty beach, in full sun,
He paddled for miles and did not see anyone,
And as he walked, the salty smell and the air
Of the beautiful place, worked; he did not remember.
That beach, as a matter of fact, shelves to deep water,
He must be careful to remain always a coastal-walker.
Happy Phil in his solitude. I am glad
He has this retreat. But it is not good.
Piggy to Joey
Piggy to Joey,
Piggy to Joe,
Yes, that’s what I was –
Piggy to Joe.
Will he come back again?
Oh no, no, no.
Oh how I wish I hadn’t been
Piggy to Joe.
Pretty
Why is the word pretty so underrated?
In November the leaf is pretty when it falls
The stream grows deep in the woods after rain
And in the pretty pool the pike stalks
He stalks his prey, and this is pretty too,
The prey escapes with an underwater flash
But not for long, the great fish has him now
The pike is a fish who always has his prey
And this is pretty. The water rat is pretty
His paws are not webbed, he cannot shut his nostrils
As the otter can and the beaver, he is torn between
The land and water. Not ‘torn’, he does not mind.
The owl hunts in the evening and it is pretty
The lake water below him rustles with ice
There is frost coming from the ground, in the air mist
All this is pretty, it could not be prettier.
Yes, it could always be prettier, the eye abashes
It is becoming an eye that cannot see enough,
Out of the wood the eye climbs. This is prettier
A field in the evening, tilting up.
The field tilts to the sky. Though it is late
The sky is lighter than the hill field
All this looks easy but really it is extraordinary
Well, it is extraordinary to be so pretty.
And it is careless, and that is always pretty
This field, this owl, this pike, this pool are careless,
As Nature is always careless and indifferent
Who sees, who steps, means nothing, and this is pretty.
So a person can come along like a thief – pretty! –
Stealing a look, pinching the sound and feel,
Lick the icicle broken from the bank
And still say nothing at all, only cry pretty.
Cry pretty, pretty, pretty and you’ll be able
Very soon not even to cry pretty
And so be delivered entirely from humanity
This is prettiest of all, it is very pretty.
The Small Lady
In front of the mighty washing machine
The small lady stood in a beautiful dream,
‘That these clothes so clean (oh what a relief)
Must still be ironed, is my only grief.’
But then came a great witch passing on the air
Who said, ‘What is it you still wish for, my pretty dear?
Would you like to be a duck on a northern lake,
A milky white duck with a yellow beak?’
‘Aroint thee, false witch!’ cried the lady with a brave face,
‘Human inventions help properly, magic is a disgrace.’
The witch flew off cackling for the harm was done,
‘I smell water,’ cried the lady and followed her into the setting sun.
And now in a false shape, on the wind-driven black pelt
Of that far northern lake, she is without help:
Crying, Away, away,
Come, ray of the setting sun,
Over the lake
Spread thy red streak,
Light my kingdom.
Heart of my heart, it is a mournful song,
Never will this poor lady come home.
Animula, vagula, blandula
the Emperor Hadrian to his soul
Little soul so sleek and smiling
Flesh’s friend and guest also
Where departing will you wander
Growing paler now and languid
And not joking as you used to?
Friends of the River Trent
(at their Annual Dinner)
A dwindling body of ageing fish
Is all we can present
Because of water pollution
In the River Trent
Because of water pollution, my boys,
And a lack of concerted action,
These fish of what they used to be
Is only a measly fraction
A-swimming about most roomily
Where they shoved each other before,
Yet not beefing about being solitary
Or the sparseness of the fare.
Then three cheers for the ageing fish, my boys,
Content in polluted depths
To grub up enough food, my boys,
To carry ’em to a natural death,
And may we do the same, my boys,
And carry us to a natural death.
Is it Happy?
Is it happy for me, is it happy
That my father, Lord Beale, was so famous
And I am a ne’er-do-weel? Is it happy?
And what of my mother – ‘the lady’
We called her, because she was so high-minded, born Plaidy –
Was it happy for her
That Father was never there?
Was it happy?
And Rory, Rory my brother
Who knew neither father nor brother
Being adopted in infancy by Uncle Pym
Whose name he took, was it happy for him?
Thorwald, our spaniel, gun-trained,
Died of a fatty heart;
Well, Father was never at home,
And I didn’t shoot.
Was it happy for Thorwald?
… all that money paid for a worthless scrip
That might have been mine today
If Papa had stuck to Gilt Edged or Blue Chip.
Is that happy?
My father died in his fame
Saving his country and me
From the people over the sea.
How does it feel being Beale,
Lord Beale and a ne’er-do-weel?
I’ve brought Mother home to the little house,
Having let the grand one for a commando course,
Telling ’em to look out for the pictures, of course.
All my life I have tried not to be envious
Of Father, or take it out by being nefarious,
Truly I loved him, revere
The memory of this great soldier,
Field Marshall Lord B. he was when he died,
(Happy, for me?)
Mother say
s I should bring home a bride,
Greatness skips a generation, she says, and he,
My son, need not be a nonentity.
I’ll do it, why not?
Play the part out,
Find a sort of happiness in it too I dare say, slyly
Being as it were all this quite so entirely,
Blithely calling the saviour of my country, Father,
(Happy for me)
Blithely begetting sons to carry it farther,
(Will that be?)
I’ll ask Cynthia tonight, she’ll say yes,
When I’ve got the Commandos out she’ll love the place.
It’s occurred to me also once or twice of late
To join the True Church, something Father would hate,
Not the Anglicans of course, they’re too humdrum,
It would have to be the Roman Communion.
Well, I’ve read Father Gerard and about the recusants quite a lot
And can prove: As they suffered, there cannot have been a Catholic Plot.
Is it happy for me, driving Mother mad?
Does she wish I was bad?
Think Rory might have been better than me?
Well, if she does, she don’t let me see.
Happy, is it happy?
Watchful
a Tale of Psyche
When Watchful came to me he said
As he never said before,
Wait, wait, I will see you
On Northumberland Moor.
I played with my brothers
In Northumberland House
And we laughed as we skipped and ran
And made a great noise,
And I looked through the window
And saw the sea run white
Against Northumberland,
Country of my delight.
When Watchful spoke,
As he never used to speak,
I drew apart from my brothers,
I scowled to hear Watchful speak,
Come to me, come to me,
Upon Northumberland Moor, hurry!
I will not come yet
But I will come some day.
First I must play with my brothers
And make some money
On the Stock Exchange. It was funny
How we made so much money
Because we did not want it in the old
Tall house in Northumberland,
In fact we did not want it much at all.
Often we gave parties
In London
For Senior Civil Servants
And barristers
And Junior Members
Of the Government.
I said to my brother Tommy,
It is funny
How they come
When we do not want them very much.
Tommy said, It is funny
Like the money,
We do not want
It or them very much,
Yet they come.
It is funny, Tommy, too, I said,
How the warmth of the parties
Fascinates me, and the wild laughing eyes
Of the people hold me.
You would not have thought
