Part 2
And I wished for night and you. I wanted to see you in the swimming-pool, White and shining in the silver-flecked water. While the moon rode over the garden, High in the arch of night, And the scent of the lilacs was heavy with stillness.
Night and the water, and you in your whiteness, bathing!
AMY LOWELL
POSTLUDE
Now that I have cooled to you Let there be gold of tarnished masonry, Temples soothed by the sun to ruin That sleep utterly. Give me hand for the dances, Ripples at Philæ, in and out, And lips, my Lesbian, Wall flowers that once were flame.
Your hair is my Carthage And my arms the bow And our words arrows To shoot the stars, Who from that misty sea Swarm to destroy us. But you’re there beside me Oh, how shall I defy you Who wound me in the night With breasts shining Like Venus and like Mars? The night that is shouting Jason When the loud eaves rattle As with waves above me Blue at the prow of my desire! O prayers in the dark! O incense to Poseidon! Calm in Atlantis.
WILLIAM CARLOS WILLIAMS
I HEAR AN ARMY
I hear an army charging upon the land, And the thunder of horses plunging; foam about their knees: Arrogant, in black armour, behind them stand, Disdaining the rains, with fluttering whips, the Charioteers.
They cry into the night their battle name: I moan in sleep when I hear afar their whirling laughter. They cleave the gloom of dreams, a blinding flame, Clanging, clanging upon the heart as upon an anvil.
They come shaking in triumph their long grey hair: They come out of the sea and run shouting by the shore. My heart, have you no wisdom thus to despair? My love, my love, my love, why have you left me alone?
JAMES JOYCE
ΔΏΡΙΑ
Be in me as the eternal moods of the bleak wind, and not As transient things are— gaiety of flowers. Have me in the strong loneliness of sunless cliffs And of grey waters. Let the gods speak softly of us In days hereafter, The shadowy flowers of Orcus Remember Thee.
EZRA POUND
THE RETURN
See, they return; ah, see the tentative Movements, and the slow feet, The trouble in the pace and the uncertain Wavering!
See, they return, one, and by one, With fear, as half-awakened; As if the snow should hesitate And murmur in the wind and half turn back; These were the “Wing’d-with-Awe,” Inviolable.
Gods of the winged shoe! With them the silver hounds sniffing the trace of air! Haie! Haie! These were the swift to harry; These the keen-scented; These were the souls of blood.
Slow on the leash, pallid the leash-men!
EZRA POUND
AFTER CH’U YUAN
I will get me to the wood Where the gods walk garlanded in wisteria, By the silver-blue flood move others with ivory cars. There come forth many maidens to gather grapes for the leopards, my friend. For there are leopards drawing the cars.
I will walk in the glade, I will come out of the new thicket and accost the procession of maidens.
EZRA POUND
LIU CH’E
The rustling of the silk is discontinued, Dust drifts over the courtyard, There is no sound of footfall, and the leaves Scurry into heaps and lie still, And she the rejoicer of the heart is beneath them:
A wet leaf that clings to the threshold.
EZRA POUND.
FAN-PIECE FOR HER IMPERIAL LORD
O fan of white silk, clear as frost on the grass-blade, You also are laid aside.
EZRA POUND
TS’AI CHI’H
The petals fall in the fountain, the orange coloured rose-leaves, Their ochre clings to the stone. EZRA POUND.
IN THE LITTLE OLD MARKET-PLACE
_(To the Memory of A. V.)_
It rains, it rains, From gutters and drains And gargoyles and gables: It drips from the tables That tell us the tolls upon grains, Oxen, asses, sheep, turkeys and fowls Set into the rain-soaked wall Of the old Town Hall.
The mountains being so tall And forcing the town on the river, The market’s so small That, with the wet cobbles, dark arches and all, The owls (For in dark rainy weather the owls fly out Well before four), so the owls In the gloom Have too little room And brush by the saint on the fountain In veering about.
The poor saint on the fountain! Supported by plaques of the giver To whom we’re beholden; His name was de Sales And his wife’s name von Mangel.
(Now is he a saint or archangel?) He stands on a dragon On a ball, on a column Gazing up at the vines on the mountain: And his falchion is golden And his wings are all golden. He bears golden scales And in spite of the coils of his dragon, without hint of alarm or invective Looks up at the mists on the mountain.
(Now what saint or archangel Stands winged on a dragon, Bearing golden scales and a broad bladed sword all golden? Alas, my knowledge Of all the saints of the college, Of all these glimmering, olden Sacred and misty stories Of angels and saints and old glories . . . Is sadly defective.) The poor saint on the fountain . . .
On top of his column Gazes up sad and solemn. But is it towards the top of the mountain Where the spindrifty haze is That he gazes? Or is it into the casement Where the girl sits sewing? There’s no knowing.
Hear it rain! And from eight leaden pipes in the ball he stands on That has eight leaden and copper bands on, There gurgle and drain Eight driblets of water down into the basin.
And he stands on his dragon And the girl sits sewing High, very high in her casement And before her are many geraniums in a parket All growing and blowing In box upon box From the gables right down to the basement With frescoes and carvings and paint . . .
The poor saint! It rains and it rains, In the market there isn’t an ox, And in all the emplacement For waggons there isn’t a waggon, Not a stall for a grape or a raisin, Not a soul in the market Save the saint on his dragon With the rain dribbling down in the basin, And the maiden that sews in the casement.
They are still and alone, _Mutterseelens_ alone, And the rain dribbles down from his heels and his crown, From wet stone to wet stone. It’s grey as at dawn, And the owls, grey and fawn, Call from the little town hall With its arch in the wall, Where the fire-hooks are stored.
From behind the flowers of her casement That’s all gay with the carvings and paint, The maiden gives a great yawn, But the poor saint— No doubt he’s as bored! Stands still on his column Uplifting his sword With never the ease of a yawn From wet dawn to wet dawn . . .
FORD MADOX HUEFFER
SCENTED LEAVES FROM A CHINESE JAR
THE BITTER PURPLE WILLOWS
Meditating on the glory of illustrious lineage I lifted up my eyes and beheld the bitter purple willows growing round the tombs of the exalted Mings.
THE GOLD FISH
Like a breath from hoarded musk, Like the golden fins that move Where the tank’s green shadows part— Living flames out of the dusk— Are the lightning throbs of love In the passionate lover’s heart.
THE INTOXICATED POET
A poet, having taken the bridle off his tongue, spoke thus: “More fragrant than the heliotrope, which blooms all the year round, better than vermilion letters on tablets of sendal, are thy kisses, thou shy one!”
THE JONQUILS
I have heard that a certain princess, when she found that she had been married by a demon, wove a wreath of jonquils and sent it to the lover of former days.
THE MERMAID
The sailor boy who leant over the side of the Junk of Many Pearls, and combed the green tresses of the sea with his ivory fingers, believing that he had heard the voice of a mermaid, cast his body down between the waves.
THE MIDDLE KINGDOM
The emperors of fourteen dynasties, clad in robes of yellow silk embroidered with the Dragon, wearing gold diadems set with pearls and rubies, and seated on thrones of incomparable ivory, have ruled over the Middle Kingdom for four thousand years.
THE MILKY WAY
My mother taught me that every night a procession of junks carrying lanterns moves silently across the sky, and the water sprinkled from their paddles falls to the earth in the form of dew. I no longer believe that the stars are junks carrying lanterns, no longer that the dew is shaken from their oars.
THE SEA-SHELL
To the passionate lover, whose sighs come back to him on every breeze, all the world is like a murmuring sea-shell.
THE SWALLOW TOWER
Amid a landscape flickering with poplars, and netted by a silver stream, the Swallow Tower stands in the haunts of the sun. The winds out of the four quarters of heaven come to sigh around it, the clouds forsake the zenith to bathe it with continuous kisses. Against its sun-worn walls a sea of orchards breaks in white foam; and from the battlements the birds that flit below are seen like fishes in a green moat. The windows of the Tower stand open day and night; the winged Guests come when they please, and hold communication with the unknown Keeper of the Tower.
ALLEN UPWARD
THE ROSE
I remember a day when I stood on the sea shore at Nice, holding a scarlet rose in my hands.
The calm sea, caressed by the sun, was brightly garmented in blue, veiled in gold, and violet, verging on silver.
Gently the waves lapped the shore, and scattering into pearls, emeralds and opals, hastened towards my feet with a monotonous, rhythmical sound, like the prolonged note of a single harp-string.
High in the clear, blue-golden sky hung the great, burning disc of the sun.
White seagulls hovered above the waves, now barely touching them with their snow-white breasts, now rising anew into the heights, like butterflies over the green meadows . . .
Far in the east, a ship, trailing its smoke, glided slowly from sight as though it had foundered in the waste.
I threw the rose into the sea, and watched it, caught in the wave, receding, red on the snow-white foam, paler on the emerald wave.
And the sea continued to return it to me, again and again, at last no longer a flower, but strewn petals on restless water.
So with the heart, and with all proud things. In the end nothing remains but a handful of petals of what was once a proud flower . . .
JOHN COURNOS after K. TETMAIER
DOCUMENTS
TO HULME (T. E.) AND FITZGERALD
Is there for feckless poverty That grins at ye for a’ that! A hired slave to none am I, But under-fed for a’ that; For a’ that and a’ that, The toils I shun and a’ that, My name but mocks the guinea stamp, And Pound’s dead broke for a’ that.
Although my linen still is clean, My socks fine silk and a’ that, Although I dine and drink good wine— Say, twice a week, and a’ that; For a’ that and a’ that, My tinsel shows and a’ that, These breeks ’ll no last many weeks ’Gainst wear and tear and a’ that.
Ye see this birkie ca’ed a bard, Wi’ cryptic eyes and a’ that, Aesthetic phrases by the yard; It’s but E. P. for a’ that, For a’ that and a’ that, My verses, books and a’ that, The man of independent means He looks and laughs at a’ that.
One man will make a novelette And sell the same and a’ that. For verse nae man can siller get, Nae editor maun fa’ that. For a’ that and a’ that, Their royalties and a’ that, Wib time to loaf and will to write I’ll stick to rhyme for a’ that.
And ye may prise and gang your ways Wi’ pity, sneers and a’ that, I know my trade and God has made Some men to rhyme and a’ that, For a’ that and a’ that, I maun gang on for a’ that Wi’ verse to verse until the hearse Carts off me wame and a’ that.
WRITTEN FOR THE CENACLE OF 1909 VIDE INTRODUCTION TO “THE COMPLETE POETICAL WORKS OF T. E. HULME,” PUBLISHED AT THE END OF “RIPOSTES.”
VATES, THE SOCIAL REFORMER
What shall be said of him, this cock-o’-hoop? (I’m just a trifle bored, dear God of mine, Dear unknown God, dear chicken-pox of Heaven, I’m bored I say), But still—my social friend— (One has to be familiar in one’s discourse) While he was puffing out his jets of wit Over his swollen-bellied pipe, one thinks, One thinks, you know, of quite a lot of things.
(Dear unknown God, dear, queer-faced God, Queer, queer, queer, queer-faced God, You blanky God, be quiet for half minute, And when I’ve shut up Rates, and sat on Naboth, I’ll tell you half a dozen things or so.)
There goes a flock of starlings— Now half a dozen years ago, (Shut up, you blighted God, and let me speak) I should have hove my sporting air-gun up And blazed away—and now I let ’em go— It’s odd how one changes; Yes, that’s High Germany.
But still, when he was smiling like a Chinese queen, Looking as queer (I do assure you, God) As any Chinese queen I ever saw; And tiddle-whiddle-whiddling about prose, Trying to quiz a mutton-headed poetaster, And choking all the time with politics— Why then I say, I contemplated him And marveled (God! I marveled, Write it in prose, dear God. Yes, in red ink.) And marveled, as I said, At the stupendous quantity of mind And the amazing quality thereof.
Dear God of mine, It’s really most amazing, doncherknow, But really, God, I _can’t_ get off the mark; Look here, you queer-faced God, This fellow makes me sick with all his talk, His ha’penny gibes at Celtic bards And followers of Dante—honest folk!— Because, dear God, the rotten beggar goes And makes a Chinese blue-stocking From half-digested dreams of Munich-air. And then—God, why should I write it down?— But Rates and Naboth Aren’t half such silly fools as he is (God) For they are frankly asinine, While he pretends to sanity, Modernity, (dear God, dear God).
It’s bad enough, dear God of mine, That you have set me down in London town, Endowed me with a tattered velvet coat, Soft collar and black hat and Greek ambitions; You might have left me there.
But now you send This “vates” here, this sage social reformer (Yes, God, you rotten Roman Catholic) To put his hypothetical conceptions Of what a poor young poetaster would think Into his own damned shape, and then to attack it To his own great contemplative satisfaction. What have I done, O God, That so much bitterness should flop on me? Social Reformer! That’s the beggar’s name. He’d have me write bad novels like himself.
Yes, God, I know it’s after closing time; And yes, I know I’ve smoked his cigarettes; But watch that sparrow on the fountain in the rain. How half a dozen years ago, (Shut up, you blighted God, and let me speak) I should have hove my sporting air-gun up And blazed away—and now I let him go— It’s odd how one changes; Yes, that’s High Germany.
R. A.
FRAGMENTS ADDRESSED BY CLEARCHUS H. TO ALDI
Πωετριε Πρικε φιφτεεν κενξ π. 43
Ἰ ἁυε σατ ἑρε ἁρριε ἰν μι ἀρμχαιρ (πύτνηβυς, πύτνηβυς) (1) ὐατχινγ θε στιλλ Ηουνδ ἀνδ θε κιδ ὐιθ θε δαρκ ἁιρ ὑιχ θε ὐινδ ὀφ μι ὐπραισεδ ὐοικε τορε λικε ἀ γρεεν ματτεδ μεσς (Ὠ ἄνδρες Ἀθηναῖοι) (2) ὀφ ὐετ κοβυεβς ἀνδ σεαυεεδ ἀτ τυιλιγτ, βυτ τὁυγ Ἰ γρεατλιε δελιγτεδ (ἠράμαν μὲν ἐγὼ σέθεν, Ἀλδί, πάλαι πότα) (3) ἰν θησε ἀνδ θε Ἐζρα ὑισκέρς τἁτ ὑιχ σετς με νιρεστ το ὐεεπινγ (ὁ δὲ Κλέαρχος εἶπε) (4) ἰς θε κλασσικαλ ῥυθμ ὀφ θε ραρε σπεεχες, Ὠ θε ὐνσπωκεν σπεεχες Ἑλλενικ.
NOTES. (1) A vehicle conducting passengers from Athens, the capital of Greece, to the temple of the winds, which stands in a respectable suburb. (2) Rendered by Butler, “O God! O Montreal!” (3) Sappho!!!!!! (4) Xenophon’s Anabasis. F. M. H.
Pôetrie Prike phiphteen kenx p. 43
I haue sat here harrie in mi armchair (putnêbus, putnêbus) (1) uatching the still Êound and the kid uith the dark hair huich the uind oph mi upraised uoike tore like a green matted mess (Ô andres Athênaioi) (2) oph uet kobuebs and seaueed at tuiligt, but thoug I greatlie deligted (êraman men egô sethen, Aldi, palai pota) (3) in thêse and the Ezra huiskers that huich sets me nirest to ueeping (ho de Klearchos eipe) (4) is the klassikal rhythm oph the rare speeches, Ô the unspôken speeches Hellenik.
Poetry Price fifteen cents p. 43
I have sat here Harry in my armchair (Putney-bus, Putney-bus) (1) watching the still hound and the kid with the dark hair which the wind of my upraised voice tore like a green matted mess (Ô andres Athênaioi) (2) of wet cobwebs and seaweed at twilight, but though I greatly delighted (êraman men egô sethen, Aldi, palai pota) (3) in these and the Ezra whiskers that which sets me nearest to weeping (ho de Klearchos eipe) (4) is the classical rhythm of the rare speeches, O the unspoken speeches Hellenic.
BIBLIOGRAPHY
F. S. FLINT—“The Net of the Stars.” Published by Elkin Mathews, 4 Cork St., London, W.
EZRA POUND—Collected Poems (Personae, Exultations, Canzoni, Ripostes). Published by Elkin Mathews.
TRANSLATIONS:
“The Sonnets and Ballate of Guido Cavalcanti.” Published by Small, Maynard & Co., Boston.
The Canzoni of Arnaut Daniel. R. F. Seymour & Co., Fine Arts Bldg., Chicago.
PROSE:
“The Spirit of Romance.” A study of mediaeval poetry. Dent & Sons. London.
FORD MADOX HUEFFER—“Collected Poems.” Published by Max Goschen, 20 Gt. Russel St., London. Forty volumes of prose with various publishers.
ALLEN UPWARD—Author of “The New Word,” “The Divine Mystery,” etc., etc.
The “Scented Leaves” appears in “Poetry” for September 1913.
WILLIAM CARLOS WILLIAMS—“The Tempers.” Published by Elkin Mathews.
AMY LOWELL—“A Dome of Many Coloured Glass.” Published by Houghton, Mifflin, Boston.
Transcriber's Notes
On page 37, "popies" was replaced by "poppies".
The humorous poem written with Greek characters on page 62 has also been rendered in their Latin equivalents for the benefit of those who cannot pronounce the Greek and also in Latin look-alikes. It appears that, in the first line, the rho's should have been pi's, making the 5th word =ἁππιε= or =happie=; it was left as printed. Or, this might have been addressed to the editor of "Poetry" whose name was Harriet Monroe.
Minor typographical errors have been corrected without comment.
End of Project Gutenberg's Des Imagistes, by Various