by Stevie Smith
That the people we had
At our parties would have
These wild laughing eyes, but they had.
Watch out, said Tommy, the word is Watchful,
Then
We were in Northumberland again.
The window of our schoolroom was open
And in the group of my brothers in the room was one, quickly
Who was not a brother, coming to me.
I climbed down from the window in the high moonlight
Along the high brick wall of the kitchen garden
I crawled. But the wall was higher
Than I remembered it was. So when I went to drop
Off the high wall, where we used to by the mulberry tree,
It was suddenly too high, I hung by my fingers above a precipice,
But I could not hang long, I let go, I fell, fell far, fell,
Was caught. I stiffened in the arms that held me, slipped down and ran free.
Over the saltings I ran. The midnight high wind
Pulled my straight hair in streaks behind me, and I ran and ran
And did not care, as I ran by the sea shore
If Watchful ran behind or waited for me
On Northumberland Moor.
Oh how strongly the wind drew. When day broke
The waves leapt and their crests ran gold
In the morning sun, the gold sun was in their crests.
Turn away, turn away
From the high crests of the golden sea,
It was funny
How easily I turned away from the high crests, as easily
As from the parties
And the money.
I was running in a wood now, a wood of pine trees,
Very dark it was and silent, I ran on a brown pine needles
Silently, and came to a gamekeeper’s gallows. The mournful birds
Hanging there cried: We are not Watchful, and an old badger
Crawling to his sett to die said: I am not Watchful. But the wind
Cried: Hurry! and drove great snowflakes against my face.
Then I came to a dark house and the door swung and I went in,
Oh Watchful, my darling, you have led me such a dance.
He lay on a truckle bed, cold, cold; his eyes shut.
First I made a fire from the wood stacked and the pine cones,
Then I came back to him, Oh Watchful, you are so cold,
So I lay on him to warm him, and by and by
He opened his eyes and laughed to see me cry.
We need not dance any more
He said, Only the fire dances on Northumberland Moor,
The fire you have lighted for me dances
On Northumberland Moor.
Then winter blew away, a sweet sea ran pretty
And in this new world everything was happy.
How Cruel is the Story of Eve
How cruel is the story of Eve
What responsibility
It has in history
For cruelty.
Touch, where the feeling is most vulnerable,
Unblameworthy – ah reckless – desiring children,
Touch them with a touch of pain?
Abominable.
Ah what cruelty,
In history
What misery.
Put up to barter
The tender feelings
Buy her a husband to rule her
Fool her to marry a master
She must or rue it
The Lord said it.
And man, poor man,
Is he fit to rule,
Pushed to it?
How can he carry it, the governance,
And not suffer for it
Insuffisance?
He must make woman lower then
So he can be higher then.
Oh what cruelty,
In history what misery.
Soon woman grows cunning
Masks her wisdom,
How otherwise will he
Bring food and shelter, kill enemies?
If he did not feel superior
It would be worse for her
And for the tender children
Worse for them.
Oh what cruelty,
In history what misery
Oh falsity.
It is only a legend
You say? But what
Is the meaning of the legend
If not
To give blame to women most
And most punishment?
This is the meaning of a legend that colours
All human thought; it is not found among animals.
How cruel is the story of Eve,
What responsibility it has
In history
For misery.
Yet there is this to be said still:
Life would be over long ago
If men and woman had not loved each other
Naturally, naturally,
Forgetting their mythology
They would have died of it else
Long ago, long ago,
And all would be emptiness now
And silence.
Oh dread Nature, for your purpose,
To have made them love so.
The Story I Have Told
I saw the ghostly lady fleeting
In imperial purple clad
Through the trees of Lost Oleela
By the slopes of Morgenstad,
Where a carven pillar stood up,
White as bone, as white as bone,
Paused the lady, weeping paused she,
Laid her hand upon the stone,
There with fixèd mien awhile
She stood, and vanished with a moan.
Then spake a voice within my bosom
Answering what I had not asked:
You have seen the lady Fausta
Who in life was overtasked
Overtasked to seek a daughter,
Seek the lovely Eulalie,
Daily comes she, daily pauses,
Seeking Eulalie.
Eulalie beloved daughter,
A fair child and lost,
Close were they to one another
In misfortune crossed,
It was the Emperor Eelogab
Who sent them both away,
A daughter fair, a virtuous wife,
A deed to darken day,
He sent them forth to live or die
For all it happened had,
Beside the trees of Lost Oleel’
And the slopes of Morgenstad,
In castle grim and sad.
Often through the groves at midnight
Eulalie alone
Gathered moonflowers to her breast
And tarried by the stone.
In a white dress tarried she,
Sashed with violet,
In a white dress sashed with violet
Tarried Eulalie.
Until one night a sullen storm,
A storm of deep intent,
Caught her up and carried her
And never home she went.
Never home went Eulalie
In her dress of white
And the lady Fausta waited
For her this and every night,
Waited for her, weeping for her,
This and every night.
The lady Fausta long is dead
Though she may weep and crave,
But Eulalie, fair Eulalie,
She lies not in the grave.
Ah me, what changèd voice is this
That was so soft and sad,
That now cries: Fear Oleela’s grove
And the slopes of Morgenstad,
That bids me flee Oleela’s grove
And the slopes of Morgenstad.
There is no place in all the world
Where I shall not behold
The lady Fausta weeping, pause
As she paused in days of old,
Beside the stone whose sides ar
e carved
With the story I have told,
Of Fausta and of Eulalie,
The story I have told.
Fairy Story
I went into the wood one day
And there I walked and lost my way
When it was so dark I could not see
A little creature came to me
He said if I would sing a song
The time would not be very long
But first I must let him hold my hand tight
Or else the wood would give me a fright
I sang a song, he let me go
But now I am home again there is nobody I know.
Angel Face
Angel face so close above me
In the snowflake glowing smugly
Sweet Angel, love me, love me.
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.
But thy face will beckon, beckon,
Saying to me, Come soon, come soon,
As is thy snowy custom
It is thy snowy custom
When at night the flakes are falling
Of the midnight snowstorm falling
To be so appealing, teasing
Smiling, teasing and appealing,
In thy white and silent way
Saying only, Come away.
If I doubt thee, if I think thee
But a figment of my fancy,
Sweet Angel, love me, love me,
In thy bosom cover me.
The Grange
Oh there hasn’t been much change
At the Grange,
Of course the blackberries growing closer
Make getting in a bit of a poser,
But there hasn’t been much change
At the Grange.
Old Sir Prior died,
They say on the point of leaving for the seaside,
They never found the body, which seemed odd to some
(Not me, seeing as what I seen the butler done.)
Oh there hasn’t been much change
At the Grange.
The governess ’as got it now,
Miss Ursy ’aving moved down to the Green Cow –
Proper done out of ’er rights, she was, a b. shame,
And what’s that the governess pushes round at night in the old pram?
Oh there hasn’t been much change
At the Grange.
The shops leave supplies at the gate now, meat, groceries,
Mostly old tinned stuff you know from McInnes’s,
They wouldn’t go up to the door,
Not after what happened to Fred’s pa.
Oh there hasn’t been much change
At the Grange.
Parssing there early this morning, cor lummy,
I ’ears a whistling sound coming from the old chimney,
Whistling it was fit to bust and not a note wrong,
The old pot, whistling The Death of Nelson.
No there hasn’t been much change
At the Grange,
But few goes that way somehow,
Not now.
Mrs Arbuthnot
Mrs Arbuthnot was a poet
A poet of high degree,
But her talent left her;
Now she lives at home by the sea.
In the morning she washes up,
In the afternoon she sleeps,
Only in the evenings sometimes
For her lost talent she weeps,
Crying: I should write a poem,
Can I look a wave in the face
If I do not write a poem about a sea-wave,
Putting the words in place.
Mrs Arbuthnot has died,
She has gone to heaven,
She is one with the heavenly combers now
And need not write about them.
Cry: She is a heavenly comber,
She runs with a comb of fire,
Nobody writes or wishes to
Who is one with their desire.
Magnificent Words
‘Ye shall be a blessing; fear not, but let your hands be strong.’
ZECH. VIII, 13
These magnificent words that I read today
Are what the Daily Telegraph had chosen, to display
From the bible.
Who is it who chooses at the Daily Telegraph each day
Magnificent words out of all of them, to display
From the bible?
This unknown person’s hand is strong, he is a blessing,
Everyday
He chooses magnificent words in the Daily Telegraph, to display
From the bible.
So can anger …
They do not come separately
They are never alone
They come all together
Or they stay at home
I liked one of them,
I asked one,
But he laughed and said; You forget
Our name is Legion.
All right, stay away then,
If I have to have the others as well.
So can anger sometimes
Save us from hell.
On Walking Slowly After an Accident
I used to walk quickly
But now I walk slow
I see the sunshine on each leaf
And the spider below.
I know the spider
I know his trick
I see the web shake
As he gives a kick
And I see that the fly he goes for
Is not a fly but a dandelion seed,
He harvests with chagrin
What cannot feed.
I turn to the sunny leaf
From the chagrin below
Knowing never a spider, poor spider,
Could so,
Nor a quick walker either
For he would have seen neither
Leaf nor spider, leaf nor spider,
Ni le chagrin de dandelion seed.
I am a girl who loves to shoot
I am a girl who loves to shoot,
I love the feathered fowl and brute,
I love them with a love as strong
As ever there came from heaven down.
Why should I not love them living as dead?
As I shoot, as I shoot, and as my fine dog Tray
Brings the shot one to hand, he is I, I am they.
Oh why do my friends think this love is so questionable?
They say they love animals but they do not love them as I am able,
Seeing them run and fly and letting them run, fly and die,
I love them to distraction as the wild wind goes by,
As the rain and the storm on this wide upper hill,
Oh no one loves the animals as I do or so well.
If I am not hungry I let them run free,
And if I am hungry they are my darling passionate delicacy.
Into the wild woods I go over the high mountains to the valley low,
And the animals are safe; if I am not hungry they may run and go,
And I bless their beautiful appearance and their fleetness,
And I feel no contradiction or contriteness.
I love them living and I love them dead with a quick blood spurt
And I may put them in the pot and eat them up with a loving heart.
I am a girl who loves to shoot,
I love the feathered fowl and brute,
I love them with as great a love
As ever came down from heaven above.
I love …
I love the English country scene
But sometimes think there’s too much Hooker’s green,
Especially in August, when the flowers that might have lent a
Lightness, don’t; being gamboge or magenta.
Cœur Simple
Where is the sky hurry
ing to
Over my head,
Mother, is the sky hurrying
To bed?
Where is the sky hurrying to
Over my head?
Where it will be hurrying to
When you are dead.
Nodding
Tizdal my beautiful cat
Lies on the old rag mat
In front of the kitchen fire.
Outside the night is black.
The great fat cat
Lies with his paws under him
His whiskers twitch in a dream,
He is slumbering.
The clock on the mantelpiece
Ticks unevenly, tic toc, tic-toc,
Good heavens what is the matter
With the kitchen clock?
Outside an owl hunts,
Hee hee hee hee,
Hunting in the Old Park
From his snowy tree.
What on earth can he find in the park tonight,
It is so wintry?
Now the fire burns suddenly too hot
Tizdal gets up to move,
Why should such an animal
Provoke our love?
The twigs from the elder bush
Are tapping on the window pane
As the wind sets them tapping,
Now the tapping begins again.
One laughs on a night like this
In a room half firelight half dark
With a great lump of a cat
Moving on the hearth,
And the twigs tapping quick,
And the owl in an absolute fit
One laughs supposing creation
Pays for its long plodding
Simply by coming to this –
Cat, night, fire – and a girl nodding.
v.
Adela is such a silly woman
Tom says Adela is going off her head
Adela is staying down in the country
She is v. happy
Dr Not is v. nice
Such a jolly old place quite like home
Dr Not is v. nice
Adela is v. happy
Adela is Not is
v. v. happy
With extensive grounds.
A British Song
It was a slender British bird
Stood on the drinking bath
But another came and nipped him there
Before he could have a bath.
Then came a great British starling, nipped the nipper and drove him away
And sat down in the bath, and sat down in the bath. And there did stay.
When the wind …
When the wind is in the East
I give a feast
When the wind is in the West
I rest
When the wind is in the South
There is a taste of sugar in my mouth
When the wind is North
I go not forth.
By the spread Arabian table
Sit the friends whom I am able
To arouse. They come to me
Across the pink Arabian sea.
I like to sleep beneath my canopy
The sun reaches to me
By the silent sea on the sands
The tropical evening sun reaches to me.
Heavy the scent of bees, heavy the sun
