From Poems [1942–1972]

October Cadence

Freight cargo
for some remote archipelago
in this melancholy autumn season.

No more stray
throughout this world of tenuous gold and grey
watching the mellow woodland wane and weazen.

No more go
at random down the dappled hedgerow
while the hibernating badger peoples

still sleep on
now that the rapture of the year has gone.
Summer's requiem rings from misty steeples

as you stand
despondent on this gleaming stubble-land
aching for the year's decay. Break bondage

of spent plains
of stubborn furrows where no warmth remains;
have sprung to your outward vagabondage!

Let no regret
or any homing thought within you fret;
O banish all such rearward turning treason . . .

freight cargo
for some remote remote archipelago
in this melancholy autumn season.

The Match

Lying asprawl the ever-toppling sky
we played a game of chess, the Fiend and I,
where the eternal star-drifts turn and flow.

The bright sun-dappled firmament below
served us for chess-board, and the men were made
of writhing fire and stormcloud. Long we played,
and long the issue of the game was lost
in labyrinthine thought, that wound and crossed
by secret logic, while the sleepless globe
turned her old body with its cloudy robe.

Until the Fiend found no victorious way
in all permuted myriad modes of play.

At length he turned, and on the board he laid
The fragrant succubus for which I'd played:
'I'm roundly trounced; but finely planned and played!
It's been a most enjoyable decade –
yes, we must play again for higher stakes.'
He pointed earthwards.
                                          'But the burning lakes
will wonder what's become of me!' He leaned
and clapped me on the shoulder. Then the Fiend
drew to his own vast stature, plumed for flight
and smiled, and turned, and vanished into Night.

Nietzsche

Slowly the peasant huts, slowly the plantations of vine and olive,
the pine forests, the turf and the patches of bracken
fell behind, beneath us as we followed him
upward, upward, upward: not hastily, not without pauses
ever and again as we turned to note
how the wide autumn landscape sank away beneath us
veiled in a sombre beauty.

And now the darker, the tragic part of our journey;
having left behind the gardens, the noises of men and women working,
the mist closing in behind us and ahead
only his familiar grey mantle showing us the way,
only his voice calling to encourage us
over the great rocks, the bitter sand and the snow.

Until the point came at which the bravest of us halted
in front of the mist, the silence, uncertain:
and there, knowing only that we had lost him,
long into the silent afternoon we waited,
not daring to follow, not wishing to return.

So shall I take . . .

So shall I take the long road south, maybe,
with spirit athirst for the long day's drouth
and the white sail bright at the delta's mouth, maybe.

And the love-pierced fool, the nightingale, maybe,
shall mingle his tale with mine, impale
his heart and mine in an amorous wail, maybe.

The road winds bright through a jasmine moon, maybe,
the road leads fair through a breathing June,
through the village bright in a misty swoon, maybe.

Till my love has split the world in two, maybe,
weaving its dream-web strangely anew,
that wept, but weeps not, the long night through.

Oriental

Since you insist, I will relate one memory.
The townsfolk told me the way, and I wandered a long time
through long unused pathways, much overgrown,
reaching his door late in the afternoon.
He was surprised, but courteous, inviting me in at once.
I recited some of his poems, and told him that I likewise wrote poetry
and he became very friendly, persuading me to take a glass of wine.
I told him my ambitions, and as we talked
I noted his deeply lined brow, his hair grey with struggle.
Nevertheless he held himself youthfully, and his eyes
reminded me of infinite sky, of eagles flying.

After we had talked he lead me round his workshop,
and jokingly we examined the many figures of jade,
some large, some small, all unbelievably beautiful.
I said: 'The time will be when the world will recognize the artist,
and admire as I admire.' But he did not seem to hear,
and said: 'My life has been a long struggle with fiends;
I have made beautiful things, and more I do not care to know.'

I remember that he spoke coarsely of women.

Incantation

Tenderly, slenderly
capture, enrapture her,
till her whole being's shot with sweet fire;
encircle, enslave
when laughing, when grave,
dwarfdrostle, wolf's bane, plants of desire!
Be subtle, infuse
her soft limbs, O confuse
all her senses with imperious petulant pain!
In rainfall, in shine,
work my design,
                             dwarfdrostle, wolf's bane.

Angerly, clangourly
fashion, impassion her,
body and spirit, O turn traitor, conspire
to yield her, to fall
unregretful, my thrall,
amethyst, toadstone, gems of desire!
for sleepless, my demon
shall plague her, a leman
whose venomous lips shall not leave her alone
till her divine
white bosom's mine,
                                       amethyst, toadstone.

Metempsychosis

The desert fading,
the passing triumph of each intolerable grain of sand,
the spectral waters, accursed, unquenching,
the dwindling song of the desert demon.

The swift-maned untameable star-trampling breezes
sweeping him onward, sun after sun,
on to the sword's edge, the hair
bridging infinity.

Not Paradise, but a new childhood.
Not peace, but a continued expiation.

The slender smokeline curling from the cloudcapped volcano,
awakening birdsong, the sound of the woodcutter,
a spray of berries wet with mist, a hand -
symbols in an unknown tongue.

From 'Cleopatra's Notebook', Part I (1956)

XXVII Metempsychosis

From the Spanish of Rubén Darío


I was a soldier who slept in the bed
of Cleopatra the Queen. Her whiteness,
her starry and omnipotent gaze.
                    No more than that.

Gaze and whiteness, and O, that bed
in which lay radiant her whiteness!
O, omnipotent marble and rose!
                    No more than that.

Her spine lay across my arm; and I,
a freedman, made her forget Antony.
(O bed and gaze and whiteness!)
                    No more than that.

I Rufus Gallus was a soldier, and my blood
was Gallic, and the Imperial Cow
gave me a reckless moment of her caprice.
                    No more than that.

Why in that spasm did not the tendons
of my fingers of bronze slowly squeeze
the neck of the white Queen in mockery?
                    No more than that.

I was carried to Egypt. The chain
bore on my backbone. One day I was eaten
by dogs. My name, Rufus Gallus.
                    No more than that.

XXXIII

Lovely are the women of Rubén Darío,
as warm as Nicaragua, as old as Spain,
the depths of their dark eyes are sweeter than sorrow,
and he who learns to love them will leave them not again.

About me they turn in a languid confusion,
passing and repassing in an intricate stream,
turning in a dance of delicious disillusion,
desolation and desire and delirium and dream.

Lovely are the women of Rubén Darío . . .
their passing is a fragrance, their laughter is pain.
Their beauty is unfading, they know of no tomorrow,
and he who learns to kiss them will leave them not again.

About me they move in voluptuous profusion
turning to the measure of an antiquated theme,
and I long for the kiss that shall remove all disillusion,
desolation and desire and delirium and dream!

From 'Cleopatra's Notebook', Part II (1956)

V

According to promise I here define
inspiration.
It is in fact
chiselling, filing, polishing –
chiselling, filing, polishing! –
but (N.B.) as much
on a grey wet morning of winter
as in an infinite midday of spring.

XII  Song

I gave her two earrings
strangely carved,
wisely made:
the first of that stone
that bleeds when you press it.
In it was my heart
and all its red depths
had the clearness of tears.
O, and if she wore sweetness
she also wore terror!

I gave her two earrings
strangely carved,
wisely made:
the second of that stone
that shrieks when you press it.
In it was my soul
and all its dark depths
had the brightness of hope.
O, and if clad in beauty
she was clad too in terror!

XLIV  Legend

The hot sun blazing overhead
the lizard in the river bed
the crags of mottled, sneering red,
                                         south of Tombstone.

I hit the trail without remorse
I crossed a dried-up watercourse
I heard the trotting of a horse
                                         south of Tombstone.

Heaven was boundless, earth was free
but I looked back uneasily
for there was someone after me
                                         south of Tombstone.

I couldn't see the fellow's face:
I gave the mare her smartest pace:
I didn't think to lose that race
                                         south of Tombstone.

Uphill – I thought the mare would drop
and as we drew a-nigh the top
he hollered out for me to stop
                                         south of Tombstone.

I turned and wondered: guns or knives?
I hadn't got a dozen lives
and the quickest on the draw survives
                                         south of Tombstone.

I knew the voice: his hat was low,
his hands went to his holsters, so
I drew my guns and let them go
                                         south of Tombstone.

The fellow slumped without a moan
and lay there on the sunbaked stone.
I knew the face – it was my own -
                                         south of Tombstone.

I left him there in Bad Man's Land
and those who do not undertand
can ask the silence and the sand
                                         south of Tombstone.

XLVI  Post-script

Ponder each word, Professor,
put in the commas.
From the depths of your academic wisdom
or your sleepless pillow,
decide whether each tear
is or is not
a distinct contribution to English Literature.

From 'Primrose Hill' (1966)

X  Copla

Vamos de aqui, galanes
Que aqui no ganamos nada:
Otro se lleva la moza:
nosotros, la noche mala.

Gentleman, let be, let be;
for here we waste our time.
Another gets the girl; and we –
dark night, and empty rhyme.

XVIII  Arabic Grammar

First identify the root.
The verb can chiefly take ten forms.
Abu Nawas winked an eye.
First identify the root.

The sword of Zeyd is bright and sharp.
A merchant had three daughters fair.
The great Caliph Haroun was bored.
The verb can chiefly take ten forms.

High over Tigris shines the moon.
Baghdad, how beautiful, how rare!
We come now to the verbal noun.
Abu Nawas winked an eye.

There is no wisdom save from God.
The maiden bent her slender neck.
I hear somewhere the plaintive lute.
Baghdad, how beautiful, how rare!

The sword of Zeyd is bright and sharp.
Abu Nawas dropped a tear.
The Calph paced the moonlit streets.
A merchant had three daughters fair.

The Caliph paced the moonlit streets.
I hear somewhere the plaintive lute.
The maiden bent her slender neck.
We come now to the verbal noun.

Abu Nawas dropped a tear.
There is no wisdom save in God.
High over Tigris shines the moon.
O Arabic, O magic tongue . . .

Baghdad, how beautiful, how rare!
The great Caliph Haroun was bored.
The maiden bent her slender neck.
The sword of Zeyd is bright – and sharp.

XXIII  Testament

I bequeath to posterity
a fine day on Primrose Hill;
swept clear by rain and wind,
blue sky, and scudding cloud.

I bequeath likewise
a sunset over the Hill,
with all the Arabian Nights flung down the sky.

And, finally, night on the Hill;
the moon slow-sailing, just above the trees, and
the old owl by the water works.

XXXI  Nonsense

Field-Marshall Bou of Viking
        will not find this my song
so greatly to his liking
        for it is over-long.

But no, it seems I'm wrong.
        He wrote to me from Viking:
'I found it rather strong -
        but, still, extremely striking!'

XXXIV  Lines

Written after a lecture by Mr Theodore Besterman,
at which he glumly admitted that several thousand
of Voltaire's letters still remained to be dealt
with.

Merry Voltaire, the wicked sage,
took a pen, and on the page
he dashed five lines to last an age.
                 Merry Voltaire,
                   Light as air!

For seventy years the goosequill flew,
the paper pampas speeding through,
Frederick, Catherine, what have you . . .
                 Merry Voltaire,
                   Light as air!

Relentlessly, and score by score,
until the patient bookshelves bore
a hundred volumes, and two more –
                 Merry Voltaire,
                   Light as air!

– the mighty correspondence ran,
achieving superhuman span,
until it bested Besterman!
                 Merry Voltaire,
                   Light as air!

From 'The Tor and other poems' (1966)

22  From the Arabic

Behold the sea. It is a spectacle
of wonder, and the waves that strongly bend
and break upon the shore, a miracle
that shall repeat till time be at an end;

And like a mightly ruler seems the land
watching his armies pass him; filled with awe
unceasing they throng, their master's hand
continually to kiss, and then withdraw.

From 'Poems' (1969)

29  Messer Marco Polo

The print's too small;
the learned footnotes are minute,
and Colonel Yule
has made research in vain.
He's in my bookpile
– this much travelled Venetian
not to read
but for the suggestion of mountain peaks
and iridescent cities,
the unparalleled magnificence of China
in a fabulous age.

From 'Skiddington and other poems' (1970)

XXVIII Homage to No. 20 Regent's Park Road

D.  The Epigram

A truth that's overwhelming, huge,
is figured by a subterfuge
when it has beauty will not stay
to meet the light of bitter day.

So here's conjecture in a rhyme
foreshadowing the future time
when some deep scholar I shall be
and you the Greek Anthology.