by Mervyn Peake
(c. 1947)
Squat Ursula
1
Squat Ursula the golden
With such wild beauty blest,
That when a man’s beholden
Her glory – heel to crest –
He rests – if he’s an old’n
It’s wise to take a rest.
2
Squat Ursula the golden
Can tire the young men too,
Because her limbs are moulden
From honey, milk and dew,
And April leaves, and olden
Magic – and Irish stew.
3
But Ursula has vanished
With some unbridled boy
Along with pictures varnished
With swamps of sepia gloy –
Along with bronzes burnished,
And all the tripe of Troy.
4
O Ursula, Squat Ursula,
Wild Ursula, recall
That night I sang a versula
Beneath the midnight wall –
And how you were so terse-ula
And sharp with me, ’n’ all.
5
But you are gone; your goldness
Your wildness and your squat
Magnetic form, your coldness
That left me piping hot –
And you are gone, my olden
Flame whom I never caught!
6
Along with Saul and Moses
Along with all the lot
Who had fantastic noses
And didn’t care a jot –
O Ursula! what roses
I ever plucked, or bought
7
Have been for you, my passion,
My queen of fire and dread;
Divine amalgamation
Of swedes and copper-thread,
Unstitch your irritation
And kiss me when I’m dead.
(c. 1947)
The Hideous Root
1
A Plumber appeared by the Light of the Moon
And sang like the grinding of brakes
To his wife, who made answer, which, though out of tune
And aesthetically full of mistakes
Was sweet in his ear, for he knew that it meant
She was waiting for him in their Wickerwork Tent.
2
The plumber, ignoring the Light of the Moon
Permitted his Body to Spring
Like a leaf in the wind, like a heifer in June,
Like a fish, or a bun on a string –
There was Joy in his Heart, and the Prawns in his Hair
Felt the wind in their scales as he leapt through the Air.
3
The Leap of a Plumber in tropical climes
Is a sight calculated to pluck
At the heartstrings of those who, ahead of their times
Know Skill, when they see it, from Luck –
O full of professional Zest is the sight
Of a Plumber spreadeagled in amorous flight.
4
When the Plumber had landed, his Echoes had died
Through the forest, and he was alone
With his Shadow, his Passion, his Prawns and his Pride
And his suitcase from Marylebone.
Above him the trees with their heliotrope Fruit
Reflected their sheen on his Tropical Suit.
5
His Tropical Suit, that he made long ago
In his bachelor days, ’neath a Tree,
With his Needle and Cotton a-glint in the glow
Of a sunset that sat on the sea –
The Suit that enriched seven months of his life
In the making thereof for the Eye of a Wife.
6
And a Wife soon enough had arrived on the Scene,
She had watched him, one evening of Thrills,
His Suit in the starlight was purple and green
And was garnished with Tassels and Frills.
On his shimmering sleeves there were crescents and moons
And his chest was embroidered with knives, forks and spoons.
7
His collar was seaweed dragged out of the Sea
All golden and shiny and wet.
His hat was an Elephant’s Ear, that could be
Twisted up like a fresh serviette
That is perched on the Table when very clean guests
Are invited to dinner with studs in their vests.
8
Now that very same evening (the evening she saw
Him appear in his Tropical Suit)
She had stood silhouetted against the White Shore,
In her hand was the Hideous Root –
The Root, but for which he might never have known
Any Thing could be worse than the Face of his Own.
9
But O, it was worse, it was worse than a dream
Of a gargoyle coiled up in a fight
With itself, whom it bites, and decides that each scream
Is not its, but some foe’s in the Night,
Far worse was this Hideous Root, that she carried
At the side of her face, even now she was married.
10
And O, to the Plumber, as lovely she is
As a rose on the brow of a fawn.
Or a dewdrop that gurgles in aqueous bliss
In tremulous light of the dawn.
How gorgeous she was, he remembered, that day
On the sands, when he wooed her and took her away.
11
‘But the Root,’ he had murmured, ‘the Root, my most sweet!
Must it share in our marital life?’
She had smirked like a fairy, and wriggled her feet
Then replied, ‘You must know that a Wife
Has her secrets, my dear, and this Root is my friend –
Be patient with me, though you can’t Understand.’
12
The Plumber remembered the pride he had known
In taking her into his arms
Though she still held the Root very close to the bone
Which obstructed deploy of his charms
But O there was pride in his promise to never
Refer to the Root, though she clutch it for Ever.
13
The Plumber, with memories thick in his mind
Such as these that have just been related
Went bouncing along through the Forest to find
His beloved with whom he was mated –
Their Wickerwork Tent was beneath a bright tree
Where he pictured her waiting impatient as he.
14
He entered the glade with a bounce of such joy
That the serviette hat on his head
Was blown through the air though he’d fixed it with gloy
To his ears which were lilac and red.
It stuck in a tree and a bird with thick legs
Jumped inside with a bang and laid thirty-two eggs.
15
When he came to the Wickerwork Tent he gave cry
As before (like the grinding of brakes)
And peered through the Wickerwork Door with one eye
To observe the Reaction that shakes
The frame of a loving and sensitive spouse
When the cry of a husband vibrates through the House.
16
But O! the Black Horror! the Sharp Disillusion!
The Grim, Realistical Fact!
She was there, it is true, but was Coiled in Confusion
And foiled by lack of his Tact.
She had not been prepared for his Speed, nor before
Had been caught unawares when he Peered through the Door.
17
No! Never before since that Day of all Days
When he watched her against the White Shore –
No! Never before, since the fire of his praise
Had scalded her – Never before
In his life had he ever had Reason to Doubt!
(O where was the Root she was never Without?)
18
That horrible, desperate Ghoul of a Root,
That Nightmare of Twitches and Twists,
That Riot of Wrinkles from skull-piece to foot
With its surfeit of ankles and fists,
That coiling, incurable, knobbled and scarred
Monstrosity measuring nearly a yard.
19
As he looked through the wickerwork what should he spy
But his Wife in a Whirlpool of Speed –
When she stopped to draw breath he could see with one eye
She was very distracted indeed –
She had lost her Ridiculous Root, and he saw
That without it her Beauty was Never no more.
20
The Root which she held in the grip of her paw
As a foil to her negative charms
The Root that would heave with her every snore
As it lay through the night in her arms –
O the qualms that now racked him, the Root being gone
Made hay of his pride in a beauty now flown.
From Figures of Speech. The Key to the drawing is on p. 234.
21
For ah, in her terrible moments of rest
He could see she was frightful indeed –
The Terrible Root that had helped to invest
Her face with the bloom of her breed
Was missing! and she, being Glad of a Mate,
Was searching for It at a hideous rate.
22
The Plumber was mortified, hesitant, full
Of deep terror, but suddenly saw
The Root in the grass ’neath the Bright Tree and all
His confidence flowered once more –
He grasped it and cried to his lady within:
‘Your Root! my beloved. Your Root’s in my fin!’
23
At the sound, like a meteor that streams through a cloud
His mate had burst out of the tent.
As a Knife runs through butter, she sailed with a loud
And shattering sound as she went
Through the wickerwork wall of their dwelling, to land
By her husband who held the great Root in his hand.
24
She snatched at the Hideous Root in a wild
Unladylike manner, and squeezed
The hideous thing in her arms like a child
Beside her the Root by the rule
Of stark relativity lowered the wood
25
O’er the eyes of the Plumber, and she was Once More
An ornament made for his praise.
The Root with its mystical powers of yore
Resolved her inelegant ways
And a vision of all that her beauty had been
Returned to enchant the connubial scene.
26
But now, double padlocked the Jubilant Wife
Of the Plumber has chained to her side
The Hideous Root which she guards with her life.
For what can more furnish a bride
With tranquillity, faith and a pride in her lot
Than a Foil of the kind that the lady has got?
27
So Love once again springing green in their breasts
Is dancing like meadows of corn.
Far from rootless it quivers with joy and invests
Their feet with the flight of a fawn.
O see! how the Plumber and she can gyrate,
His arm round the shuddering waist of his mate!
28
And from then until now the thrice halcyon days
Flow by them, the lady be-chained
With the Root at her belt while he floods her with praise
In a manner ornate and unfeigned,
And yet – at the back of his mind sometimes stirs
A dislike of That Root and that Secret of hers.
(c. 1947)
The Men in Bowler Hats Are Sweet
The Men in Bowler Hats are Sweet!
And dance through April showers,
So innocent! Oh it’s a treat
To watch their tiny little feet
Leap nimbly through the arduous wheat
Among the lambs and flowers.
Many and many is the time
That I have watched them play,
A broker drenched in glimmering rime,
A banker, innocent of crime,
With lots of bears and bulls, in time
To share the holiday.
The grass is lush – the moss is plush,
The trees are hands at prayer.
The banker and the broker flush
To see a white rose in a bush,
And gasp with joy, and with a blush
They hug each bull and bear.
The Men in Bowler Hats are sweet
Beneath their bowler hats.
It’s not their fault if, in the heat
Of their Transactions; I repeat,
It’s not their fault if Vampires meet
And gurgle in their spats.
(c. 1947)
Aunts and Uncles
When Aunty Jane
Became a Crane
She put her leg behind her head;
And even when the clock struck ten
Refused to go to bed.
When Aunty Grace
Became a Plaice
She all but vanished sideways on;
Except her nose
And pointed toes
The rest of her was gone.
When Uncle Wog
Became a Dog
He hid himself for shame;
He sometimes hid his bone as well
And wouldn’t hear the front-door bell,
Or answer to his name.
When Aunty Flo
Became a Crow
She had a bed put in a tree;
And there she lay
And read all day
Of ornithology.
When Aunty Vi
Became a Fly
Her favourite nephew
Sought her life;
How could he know
That with each blow
He bruised his Uncle’s wife?
When Uncle Sam
Became a Ham
We did not care to carve him up;
He struggled so
We let him go
And gave him to the pup.
When Aunty Nag
Became a Crag
She stared across the dawn,
To where her spouse
Kept open house
With ladies on the lawn.
When Aunty Mig
Became a Pig
She floated on the briny breeze,
With irritation in her heart
And warts upon her knees.
When Aunty Jill
Became a Pill
She stared all day through dark-blue glass;
And always sneered
When men appeared
To ask her how she was.
When Uncle Jake
Became a Snake
He never found it out;
And so as no one mentions it
One sees him still about.
(c. 1947)
The Osseous ’Orse
Come, flick the ulna juggler-wise
And twang the tibia for me!
O Osseous ’orse, the future lies
Like serum on the sea.
Green fields and buttercups no more
Regale you with delight, no, no!
The tonic tempests leap and pour
Through your white pelvis ever so.
‘Are you enjoying it, Irma?’ She nodded sleepily.
Come, clap your scapulae and twitch
The white pagoda of your spine,
Removed from life’s eternal itch
What need for iodine?
&
nbsp; Then dine! I owe you this at least!
Dine! in the over-rated light
Of the pig-faced moon. We’ll have a feast
To end all feasts tonight.
The Osseous ’orse sat up at once
And clanged his ribs in biblic pride.
I fear I looked at him askance
Though he had naught to hide…
No hide at all… just…
At this point the doctor, having forgotten what came next, turned his eyes once more to his sister Irma; she was fast asleep.
(February 1948)
From Figures of Speech. The Key to the drawing is on p. 234.
Song of the Castle Poet
(To be declaimed with one foot in the air!)
So is it always when the hairfaced hedgerow
Whores with the sucking legions and the hips
Of autumn prick and parry at the bluebud.
So was it always: down the lean perspectives
Sparkle the flecks of sunbeams, motes and needles,
(Where is the wiseman with an eye to spare?)
And over all the emerald nods and bows.
There is no never no more nor ever again
