Part 2

“Well! The red currants must be picked to-day. They’re ready for jelly” Grandmother would say. She never wasted words yet had her way. In cool gray cotton gown, and black straw hat Securely tied--She made a point of that Though no breeze stirred the lilacs where she sat To superintend old Jock and Marie Anne At tasks of picking. When her palm-leaf fan Waved slowly all was well; but my blood ran Quicker when it moved very fast ... one knew The hours were slipping past ... then old Jock too And Marie Anne, would pick with greater zest. “Granny! Red currant jelly’s _much_ the best!” “Black’s best for colds” she’d say, as she caressed With firm kind fingers my rough curly head. She rarely kissed me. Deep within was bred Acid reserve and purity ... those red Ripe currants, with their pleasant acid tang, Seemed to me just _like_ Grandmother! I sang My multiplication-tables till they rang Loud through the garden where dear Granny sat Smiling--well-pleased--with firmly-tied black hat!

AMBER RASPBERRIES

Old Jock and Marie Anne could never find Raspberries of the glowing amber kind To fill the “ancient porcelain bowl.” (’Twas lined With amber glaze; outside a gold vine wound In such a graceful pattern round and round.) But if my Mother looked she always found Enough to fill the bowl. That day we’d three Distinguished guests. I loved to have them see My lovely Mother as she looked at tea.... Her gown of creamy lace--her shining hair, Her beads of old carved amber ... all her rare Fragile soft richness, like the berries there With their pale amber bloom. I loved her so.... I wished that every body there could know.... “Why don’t you eat your berries, Child?” ... then low I bent my head to hide two burning tears Of yearning love. How strange those vague cold fears My child heart knew that day ... what long long years Since those last lovely hours of ecstasy When she made Beauty live and thrill for me.

Songs of Women

BLUE MOON

Oh I was young an’ feared o’ pain When I went hot-lovering down the lane. I sipped sweet honey wi’ my red lips, An’ I touched fire wi’ my finger-tips, But I drew them back again-- For the withered, gray woman so old and wise, Wi’ the queer, hushed voice an’ the listening eyes, An’ the stone-deaf ears, who lives i’ the lane-- She stepped so soft an’ she says “Rose-Jane! You’re eating plum porridge (ye poor wee loon!) Eating it hot in a rare blue moon. You’ve a dimpled face like a rosy June, But your mouth’ll be burnt Before you’ve learnt The way of a man in the moon. And then they’ll call you ‘Old Rose-Jane Who went hot-lovering down the lane.’ Beware of the rare blue moon, Rose-Jane!”

Saints bless that woman wi’ listening eyes! I’ve planted the sweet-briar where she lies. She stopped my ears an’ she made me wise. I’m pure as the virgin saints are pure-- Now never a man my pale lips lure. But once in a blue moon, I’m not sure That the withered gray woman, wi’ listening eyes, Didn’t cheat me out of a rare fine prize.

Something calls to me i’ the moon, “Rose-Jane! Rose-Jane! Come! Come soon!”

MISTRESS MARY

“O Mistress Mary--Mistress Mary-- What have you found in your new old house? Paperers are waiting you, and carpenters, and gardeners-- And you are up garret, just as still as a mouse! What makes your eyes so wet and so round? Mary--Mary! What have you found?”

“Where the sour old wind grieves under the eaves There’s an old trunk hid--Oh the dust on the lid! I pulled out from it a gay round box, And in it were worn-out boots and socks-- Little, soft socks and little, stout boots-- And a child’s crude drawings of flowers and fruits, And a tiny toy whip, and a ship and a ball-- Oh--they’re just like a little lost boy! That’s all!”

DAFFY-DOWN-DILLY

’Twas a green velvet gown That he wanted me to wear, With a yellow satin ribbon In my rough brown hair.

But his flame burned down And then he turned cold; And he sent for the Parson, Who called me bold.

* * * * *

So I’ve come down with my velvet gown To earn my living in Evil-Town. But I think I was ever more mad than bad, And I’d very much rather be good and glad....

* * * * *

_Frowsy thing With a broken wing! Hark to the queer little songs she’ll sing! Drowsy thing!_

THE BIRTH-NIGHT

The eerie fingers of the rain All day have stroked my window-pane, While all the day and all the night Elves have been grinding, keen and bright, Weird, tiny knives of nerves and wits. Upon my heart an Elf-king sits ... A cruel, Lilliputian mite ... And by my breath he flies a kite Of hope in life or hope in death. He tugs and scowls with all his might ... The kite depends on my frail breath. I watch the earthly colours bright, Painted upon that fluttering kite.

* * * * *

Little boys fly gay kites And play with marbles ... Little boys laugh and shout In the wind and the sunshine....

* * * * *

Little Boy ... oh little Boy ... were you ever an Elf-king?

* * * * *

The eerie fingers of the rain All day have stroked my window-pane.

* * * * *

Far off I hear a voice explain “She seems to listen to the rain ... She _has_ put up a plucky fight! A splendid boy! Oh _she’s_ all right!”

* * * * *

Elves! Elves! Stop your grinding! Rain! Rain! Stop your stroking! Bright little kite is gaily flying In the sky ... for I’m not dying ... I am alive!... alive!... alive! Heart and soul and senses five!

* * * * *

Now as soon as I can say anything I’ll make them show me that Elfin-king!

A PORTRAIT

Frail, exquisite, indomitable face, Where pain has left its trace ... Where are the words to paint Her curious austere charm ... elusive, pure, As the frost etchings on the window-pane. Ivory, ebony, lace ... Yes I shall choose that clinging gown of black, Severely plain, but with such frills of lace Over the delicate wrists and blue-veined hands That for an instant one feels all restraint Quite useless! Ravishing, ecstatic frills Of lace, or lacy thrills! Choose either phrase! She’s no fanatical saint ... No, after all, No saint at all! Come help me, portrait painters rare and old ... Velasquez, Romney, Reynolds and Van Dyke ... Here’s what you’d like Poured in a modern, twentieth century mould. Ivory, ebony, lace ... Her face Brings suddenly before me grave and clear, Impression of an old-time cavalier, With feminine grace; Brave glancing sword and delicate ripples of lace. For she has conquered dragons of old pain With a deep-shining clarity of thought: Victorious though her frailty shows the strain. I trace With clumsy words the outlines of her face ... Brave, grave, and suddenly flashing, purely gay, Like the lace frills at play! And so you see as I began I end This portrait of my friend ... Ivory, ebony, lace ... Frail, exquisite, indomitable face!

THE SONG OF THE WILLOW WAND

Sing hey the green willow That grows in my valley! Oh who would climb hill-tops To see what’s beyond!

There came a gipsy vagabond A-strolling down my valley, With honey mouth for kissing And a gown of dusky red. “So this is how ye spend the days Wi’ never a wind to freshen ye-- Climb up the hill wi’ me, my lad, An’ look--see what’s beyond!” She laughed wi’ me, and shared sweet bread, And waved a willow wand. By green moonlight we climbed the hill And reached the top at morn, And then she stood on tip-toe there And blew a silver horn. Oh at the other side the hill Her gipsy lord was waiting there ... I saw a joyous mating there That left me all forlorn. I watched her gown of dusky red Against the blue horizon ... Oh that was how I climbed the hill And saw the world beyond. I wonder why God let her come And share sweet bread a-laughing, And leave a-lying at my feet Her broken willow wand.

Sing hey the green willow That grows in my valley! Oh who would climb hill-tops To see what’s beyond?

THE DEAD VIOLIN

Icicles ... icicles hang from the eaves In glittering sheaves, Over attic windows, A cold wind heaves Great, shuddering, gusty sighs; it grieves For its waning power in the gay March sun, Whose melting work now is well begun ... Soft, slow, Drip, drip, Soft, slow, Drop, drop ... Great icicle tears ... Glistening, heavy, sun-drenched tears! Under my roof Remote, aloof, Lies this deer-hide trunk with its quaint, brass nails, Ancient, small ... How that old wind wails As I lift the lid to see What is here for me! Delightful find! All carefully, carefully lined With old old wall-paper, blue and gold! First I unfold An Indian shawl ... then a linen sheet ... Oh ... packets of letters, still faintly sweet ... “More letters to burn!” I groan, “Dear dear! But here ... look here! As I live an old, old violin, So frail and thin, And dusky dark in its shapely line; A shell out-worn; (hear that old wind whine!) With a cruel gash here at one side, And the tail-piece torn And dangling, tied by a piece of twine ... A dead violin in fine.

* * * * *

“We spend our years as a tale that is told” Violins packed in a poetry mould! Blue violins that, liquid, pour Vanished songs on a mystic shore ... Green violins that ecstatic trill Like bobolinks, till the year stands still In a lyrical meadow of green and gold ... (Violins packed in a poetry mould!) Red violins of a summer night Throbbing with passionate, blood-red song ... Dead violin! Ice-bound so long ... Soft! Soft ... drop softly icicle tears ... Icicle tears from the ice-bound years, Vibrating under my strong, new roof, Where the old violin, remote, aloof, Lies in my hands so terribly dead ... Never an echo of throbbing red ... Dead. Dead.

* * * * *

I want to bury it where it will rot In rich warm earth, in a noontide hot, Under the mightiest tree I know, And let it again through the tree-roots grow. I’ll fold it close in the soft, old sheet, Place the letters, still faintly sweet, Against the gash in its dark-hued side ... Its the violin--not Love--that died.

A SKETCH

I hear him humming as he drives his car, In mellow baritone, an ancient psalm-- Drifting down to his subtle modern brain From his old covenanting ancestors, Who strode bare-kneed through purple heather bloom, Praising their God on wind-swept Highland hills. I am his wife. Beside him vividly, I see now not the crowded city streets, Through which he presses, strong, aloof and calm, Factories and shipyards where his vast machines Whirr steadfastly, obedient to his brain-- I see now just those small and golden hours When he is mine.

Cinquains

CITY CHILD’S EASTER

Fragrance Of Hot Cross Buns: Pots of white lilies: sunshine: magic eggs: New skipping-ropes--but old old winds Of Faith.

DEEP SNOW

Powder Of diamond Upon a silver birch; Old stone wall Buried deep.

And you ... A scarlet bird Whose wild wings flutter here Against my soul. How still The world!

HOKKU

*“‘Hokku’ (seventeen-syllable poem) in Japanese mind might be compared with a tiny star, I dare say, carrying the whole sky at its back. It is like a slightly-open door, where you may steal into the realm of poesy. It is simply a guiding lamp. Its value depends on how much it suggests.”

(Yone Noguchi, from _The Pilgrimage_, published by Elkin Mathews, London, Eng.)

TWELVE HOKKU ON A CANADIAN THEME

(1)

How strangely they float, Pale gold and ivory cups, On wilderness lakes.

(2)

The loon’s weird laughter Holds Indian deviltry, Long, long forgotten.

(3)

Indian cradle Swung from bough, rocked by Four Winds: Christ lay in manger.

(4)

Silver-haired Marquise! You were transplanted, one Spring, Into wild New France.

(5)

The sugar maples ... Benevolent goddesses Who offer honey.

(6)

Snow-shoes: like strong wings Bound on the feet of victors Conquering snow-fields.

(7)

On city pavements Two muffled, sombre nuns pace, Behind laughing girls.

(8)

You set narcissus Amidst your silver birches By Northern lakeside.

(9)

Five o’clock! You pause ... Handle frail, old cups, pour tea, And become grande dame.

(10)

When Loneliness stalked ... Black panther through gold wheat-fields ... You used Love’s arrows.

(11)

Puissant woman!... Sheltering tiny things like English primroses!

(12)

Fast the new trails lead From wilderness to city! Years pass ... Canada!

LIFE SEQUENCE

(_In The Hokku Manner_)

(Unready)

Close-folded fern ... So stiff; so coldly self-sustained: But summer passes.

(Motherhood)

Puss watches the world, Troubled: but knows she is linked To a miracle.

(Home)

Empty room; fire dies; Moon shines in; chairs and tables converse; Books croon songs.

(Awakening)

Gray old tree Has breasted winter storms; but is vaguely Worried by March.

(Memorial Tablet)

Sunshine on storied bronze: Love on the whirling earth: And you on my heart.

PRAYER IN SCARLET AND WHITE PAINT

There is a marvellous washing creamy and snowy-white hung high on lines stretched from upper and lower balconies in the back-yard, across the narrow lane behind my rusty apple-tree and dusty lilac hedge; and a great splendid ‘woman-by-the-day’ comely and fat, with a bronzed skin and tumbled blue black hair, and an ugly and joyous scarlet gown, is hanging out the clothes ... wet heavy clean white clothes ... soft liquid splashes of light amidst dull dusty trees and sombre dirty bricks. The laden lines begin to ripple seductively in the cool sour east wind. There is no sun to-day, but the great splashes of high-hung white, the competent brown arms, the comfortable strength in vivid scarlet ... they have given me the warmth and wonder and the refreshment of tumbling woodland waters and blazing sun. I thank you ... Life! I daub it in on a bit of canvas (with a copy of a Botticelli madonna on the other side!) so I may remember ...... the sordid back lane has become quite immaterial ... I thank you ... Life!

Cold Tragedy

COLD TRAGEDY

FLORENCE

How this old terrace of mellow, creamy stone Grows warm in this noontide sun of Italy ... I sit alone And dream a piteous dream of ecstasy And suddenly wake! In that raw town by a Canadian lake Does she pause now ... to watch the falling snow? Before me stretch the olive trees that glow With their soft silvery radiance; far below The towers of Florence rise, like tall carved flowers. Ah I know well she does not count her hours That swiftly pass from dawn to candle-light ... She has the sun-filled day ... I but the night!

VENICE

Dense violet sky of sparkling stars above, And all around The soft, mysterious stirring of dark velvet water That makes no sound. And here in the old Square Life ... surging, swaying, sparkling everywhere, As if it held at arms’ length waiting there The sky and water and their mysteries. But near me at a little table alone, A red-haired, black-eyed woman broods and waits, Gazing across the empty cups and plates. Her bright hair makes a glory in the light, But her dark eyes, unseeing, bring the night, Too near!

ROME

So ... only the little things are left to me ... Cold comforts they!... Beauty my only home. Drifting of almond bloom ... gray ruins of Rome ... The Italian sun that makes these old stones warm ... Lilt of old poems ... sight of a girlish form ... Gay little laughter ... moon through the cypress trees ... I occupy myself quite well with these.

Homespun

TWINS

(_The old Housekeeper speaks_)

I’ve seen a good deal in my life. My own story was over you see Pretty young-- But I’ve danced an’ I’ve sung In my day with the best. I’ve been blest With the love of a fine brave man, An’ a babe at my breast. But now that’s all past, An’ I’ve got a good home that’ll last (An annuity too) Till old Mr. Drayton an’ I Get through! What d’ye say? Hmmm-- It’s funny you like to hear me talk, An’ drop in like this on your afternoon walk. Now you want to know--don’t you?-- Yes yes-- -- This last queer thing that’s happened! I guess You’ll like it because you like cats! Well--last night With the fire burnin’ bright I was sittin’ an’ knittin’ An’ watchin’ the kitten An’ the old mother cat. I sat Here; an’ there by the table a-readin’ As usual--a-readin’ as if he was feedin’ His stomach an’ soul, Sat old Mr. Drayton--as droll An’ dried up an old sinner As ever took dinner With his book by his plate, Readin’ early an’ late, With his shinin’ bald head an’ its mole. But he does love a kitten-- An’ likes me here knittin’-- Poor soul! Well all of a sudden the bell rang. I went just as spry as I could But I thought die I should When I opened the door An’ I saw standin’ there In the hall lamp’s red glare Another old Drayton--as like as two peas-- The one at the table behind me a-readin’ An’ here on the step number Two stood--a-kneadin’ His long pointed chin With his skinny old hand. But he says very bland-- A-stickin’ his eye glass up tight in his eye, With the black ribbon danglin’ “My good woman--I Am your master’s twin brother. Mr. Drayton is in?” An’ all I could say like a booby was “Twin? Twin brother--twin brother-- Oh Luddy! Twin? Twin!” Then _my_ Drayton spoke An’ I almost jumped out of my skin-- With his dry old voice Just like an echo-- “I’m in. Twin.” Then he says “Mrs. Beaton! Stay here!” I tell you I felt queer. There they sat by the fire With the table between, Just eyein’ each other-- Twin brother--twin brother-- Both babes of one mother. The old cat humped an’ spit on my knees An’ run off with a sneeze. Then said he--the new Drayton-- “Well Richard she’s dead! Kittie’s dead-- And the last words she said Were ‘Now Rob you make up with him Dear.’ So Richard--I’m here.” But my Drayton sat quiet-- Poor, shrivelled, dear soul With his mole. An’ I noticed the other was lackin’ the mole But otherwise--My! They are certainly twins! “Yes” said Drayton, “You’re in My house, Twin. So she thought Bitter Past Can be sweetened at last! Pretty thin!” An’ the light on his mole Seemed to shrivel his soul. You’d have heard it if I’d dropped a pin. Then they sat an’ they sat an’ they sat. I could see it was flat That somethin’ would _have_ to be done Or there’d nothin’ be won For either. I felt as if maybe we’d sit Till Eternity come Or till I had a fit! For with chins like theirs set-- I was in a cold sweat I can tell you. I took up my knittin’ To just die there--sittin’ When sudden that kitten She just took a glance An’ made one funny prance Up that table at Drayton-- The new one--She put up her paw An’ she patted his danglin’ black ribbon. Oh Law--an’ he had to hold tight To his eyeglass to fix it safe into his eye. Then if she didn’t try To get at it again An’ she sat up an’ blinked In his face for a minute--the man never winked. Then she played with her tail Right under his chin-- Just a gray ball of fur With two eyes an’ a purr. An’ the light that was caught In his great signet ring, She saw that an’ patted it--cute little thing-- An’ she licked all his hand with her little pink tongue, An’ then back to my Drayton As if she’d been stung! A-curlin’ right up on his shoulder an’ purrin’ The only live thing in the room that was stirrin’. Oh I tell you that kitten was more than just--cat! Love was usin’ that kitten, I felt sure of that. Back an’ forth she went playin’ Between those old twins An’ the room still so quiet you might have heard pins A-droppin’. I burst right out. “Luddy” I said “You two men! Why that kitten’s Possessed of the dead! If you could just see yourselves sittin’ up there Like two graven images--each on a chair-- An’ that little kitten a-tryin’ to play With you both--I’m clean crazy! I _will_ go away!” I just shrieked it out an’ they both spoke at once-- “Now now my good woman-- Come don’t be a dunce!” An’ I said “Well I’m neither a dunce nor--a twin! But if there’s names goin’ why I’ll just begin An’ I’ll say you’re twin dunces!” Then sudden I saw Them both smile--at the kitten! It felt like a thaw After ice--up in Greenland.

Oh yes--they’re both well. An’ the comfort they’re takin’ I’ve no words to tell.

BOB COONING

“Bob Cooning the giant’s come home to die”-- So the village folk say To-day. They shake their heads and they peer and spy, And they draw in their breaths-- “Dear--Dear!” they sigh; And they cook him dainties And wonder why The Lord ever made, under His kind sky, Bob Cooning!

Bob Cooning the giant was only a boy, Like Harry or Tom or Jim or Dick, But one that the other boys couldn’t lick. Never a clean fair fight for Bob As boy to boy. “That’s a dirty trick-- To hit a fellow just half your size!” I’ve seen the tears in Bob’s big blue eyes. “Give me a man to fight!” he’d say, And they’d jeer--“You’ll keep till another day!” Poor Bob would turn and slouch from the place And lie face down in tall “Queen Anne’s lace” And sob and sob to the cool brown earth, Far off from the sound of his playmates’ mirth-- Poor Bob Cooning!

And he could not learn to cipher or read, And he felt himself of a different breed. He ate so much, and his clothes cost more Than any one else, till his father swore. He slouched and stooped through the highest door. His poor little mother wailed and cried-- But his wise old Granny only sighed “It’s the good God made him an’ He’ll provide.” How Bob Cooning cried when his Granny died!