Part 1
THE WOODEN PEGASUS
_BY THE SAME AUTHOR_
CLOWNS’ HOUSES
3_s._ net
“It affects me like devilled almonds.”--_Land and Water._
WHEELS
Annual Anthology of Verse
=6_s._= net
“The vanguard of British Poetry.”_The Saturday Review._
OXFORD BASIL BLACKWELL
THE WOODEN PEGASUS
BY EDITH SITWELL Author of “Clowns’ Houses”; Editor of “Wheels”
OXFORD BASIL BLACKWELL 1920
TO
HELEN ROOTHAM
OSBERT SITWELL
SACHEVERELL SITWELL
AND
W. T. WALTON
ACKNOWLEDGMENT
My thanks are due to the Editors of _The Saturday Westminster_, _The Cambridge Magazine_, _Art and Letters_, _The Coterie_, and _The Daily Mirror_, and to Messrs. Cecil Palmer and Hayward for permission to reprint certain of these poems.
CONTENTS
SINGERIE 13
THE AVENUE 15
MANDOLINE 17
COMEDY FOR MARIONETTES 20
FALSETTO SONG 23
EVENTAIL 24
FIFTEEN BUCOLIC POEMS:
I. WHAT THE GOOSEGIRL SAID ABOUT THE DEAN 26
II. NOAH 28
III. THE GIRL WITH THE LINT-WHITE LOCKS 29
IV. THE LADY WITH THE SEWING-MACHINE 31
V. BY CANDLELIGHT 33
VI. SERENADE 35
VII. CLOWNS’ HOUSES 36
VIII. THE SATYR IN THE PERIWIG 39
IX. THE MUSLIN GOWN 41
X. MISS NETTYBUN AND THE SATYR’S CHILD 42
XI. QUEEN VENUS AND THE CHOIRBOY 43
XII. THE APE SEES THE FAT WOMAN 45
XIII. THE APE WATCHES “AUNT SALLY” 47
XIV. SPRINGING JACK 48
XV. “TOURNEZ, TOURNEZ, BONS CHEVAUX DE BOIS” 50
SEVEN NURSERY SONGS:
I. OLD LADY FLY-AWAY 52
II. GREAT SNORING AND NORWICH 53
III. FAT WILLIAM AND THE TRAINS 54
IV. A PENNY FARE TO BABYLON 55
V. THE BUTCHER’S SHOP 56
VI. THE KING OF CHINA’S DAUGHTER 57
VII. OLD KING PTOLEMY 58
PEDAGOGUES AND FLOWER SHOWS I 60
PEDAGOGUES AND FLOWER SHOWS II 62
SWITCHBACK 63
TRAMS 64
BANK HOLIDAY I 65
BANK HOLIDAY II 66
SMALL TALK I 67
SMALL TALK II 69
DANSONS LA GIGUE 70
MESSALINA AT MARGATE 72
PEDAGOGUES 75
SONG FROM “THE QUEEN OF PALMYRA” 77
THE CHOIR-BOY RIDES ON THE SWITCHBACK 78
APRICOT JAM 80
STOPPING PLACE 82
PORTRAIT OF A BARMAID 85
MATERIALISM; OR, PASTOR ---- TAKES THE RESTAURANT CAR FOR HEAVEN 87
THAÏS IN HEAVEN 89
FOUR NOCTURNES:
I. PROCESSIONS 91
II. GAIETY 93
III. VACUUM 96
IV. “ET L’ON ENTEND À PEINE LEURS PAROLES” 98
TREATS:
I. FUNERALS 100
II. THE COUNTY CALLS 102
III. SOLO FOR EAR-TRUMPET 104
ANTIC HAY 106
LULLABY 108
WATER MUSIC 109
THE WEB OF EROS 110
DROWNED SUNS 111
THE SPIDER 112
THE DRUNKARD 115
THE MOTHER 117
SINGERIE
Summer afternoon in Hell! Down the empty street it fell, Pantaloon and Scaramouche-- Tongues like flames and shadows louche-- Flickered down the street together In the spangled weather. Flames, bright singing-birds that pass, Whistled wares as shrill as grass (Landscapes clear as glittering glass), Whistled all together: Papagei, oh Papagei, Buy our greenest fruits, oh buy, Melons misty from the bloom Of mellow moons on some hot night, Melting in the August light; Apples like an emerald shower; Nectarines that falling boom On the grass in greenest gloom; Peaches bright as parrot’s feather Glistening from the moon’s bower; Chequered like fritillaries, Fat and red are strawberries. Parrot-voices shrill together-- Now they pelt each monkey-face (Pantaloon with simian grace) From the soft gloom till they smother Both the plumed head-dresses With the green fruit-gems that glitter (Twinkling sharp sounds like a zither). Sharp each bird-tongue shrills and hisses, Parrot-voices shrieking bane;-- Down comes every spangled shutter With a sudden noise like rain.
THE AVENUE
In the huge and glassy room, Pantaloon, with his tail-feather Spangled like the weather, Panached, too, with many a plume, Watched the monkey Fanfreluche, Shivering in his gilded ruche, Fawn upon the piano keys-- Flatter till they answer back, Through the scale of centuries, Difference between white and black. Winds like hurricanes of light Change the blackest vacuums To a light-barred avenue-- Semitones of might and right; Then, from matter, life comes. Down that lengthy avenue Leading us we know not where, Sudden views creep through the air; Oh the keys we stumble through! Jungles splashed with violent light, Promenades all hard and bright, Long tails like the swish of seas, Avenue of piano keys. Meaning comes to bind the whole, Fingers separate from thumbs, Soon the shapeless tune comes: Bestial efforts at man’s soul. What though notes are false and shrill-- Black streets tumbling down a hill? Fundamentally I am you, and you are me-- Octaves fall as emptily.
MANDOLINE
Down in Hell’s gilded street, Snow dances fleet and sweet, Bright as a parokeet,
Or Punchinello, All glistening yellow, As fruit-jewels mellow,
Glittering white and black As the swan’s glassy back On the Styx’ soundless track,
Sharp as bird’s painted bill, Pecking fruit, sweet and shrill, On a dark window-sill.
See the glass house as smooth As a wide puppet-booth ... Snow strikes it like a sooth
Melon-shaped mandoline With the sharp tang and sheen Of flames that cry, “Unclean!”
Dinah with scarlet ruche, Gay-plumaged Fanfreluche, Watch shrill as Scaramouche
In the huge house of glass Old shadows bent, alas! On ebon sticks now pass--
Lean on a nigger boy Creep like a broken toy-- Wooden and painted joy.
Trains sweep the empty floors-- Pelongs and Pallampores, Bulchauls and Sallampores,
Soundless as any breeze (Amber and orangeries) From isles in Indian seas.
Black spangled veils falling (The cold is appalling), They wave fans, hear calling
Adder-flames shrieking slow, Stinging bright fruit-like snow, Down in the street below;
While an ape, with black spangled veil, Plum’d head-dress, face dust-pale, Scratch’d with a finger-nail
Sounds from a mandoline, Tuneless and sharp as sin:-- Shutters whose tang and sheen,
Shrieking all down the scale, Seem like the flames that fail Under that onyx nail,
Light as snow dancing fleet, Bright as a parokeet, Down in Hell’s empty street.
“COMEDY FOR MARIONETTES”
(To I. C. P.)
Tang the sharp mandoline! Hail, falling in the lean Street of Hell, sweeps it clean.
Under the puppet booth, Down in Hell, see the smooth Snow bright as fruit and sooth.
Cherries and plums all freeze-- Rubies upon the trees, Rubied hail falls through these,
Pelting each young Snow Queen-- (A swan’s breath, so whitely seen,) Flirting her fan in lean
Streets, passing to and fro, White as the flamelike snow, Fruit of lips all aglow
As isles of the cherry Or ruby-sweet berry All plump sweet and merry.
Mantillas hide the shame Of each duenna dame, (Fans made of plumes of flame,)
Pelted with coral bells Out of the orchard hells, (Hail with sweet fruitage smells).
Now on the platform seen, Hoofs clatter with the clean Sound of a mandoline....
Under the tinsel sun, See shadow-spiders run!-- Fatter than any bun,
Beelzebub in a chair Sits on the platform there; Candles like cold eyes stare.
“Master has got the gout,” Adder-flames flare and spout From his lips ... shadows rout.
Tiptoe the Barber crept, On his furred black locks leapt. Candles shrieked, flaring wept.
Barber takes up the shears.... “Fur for the shivering fears, Cold in Hell these long years.”
Candles shriek up the scale, Creaking down in a wail. Hear how their protests fail!
Only cold, snakish flutes Sound like the growing fruits Out of slow hidden roots....
Strange eyes a moment stare, Fruit-like and moon-like glare, From the bright shutters where
Hail, falling in the lean Street of Hell, sweeps it clean. Tang the sharp mandoline!
FALSETTO SONG
WHEN I was young, in ages past, My soul had cast Man’s foolish shape, And like a black and hairy ape-- My shadow, he Now mimics me. Follows slinking in my shade Through the corridors of life (Stifling ’twixt the walls I made With the mud and murderous knife), Takes the pulse of my black heart, Never once controls my will, Apes me selling in the mart Song-birds hate did kill.
EVENTAIL
LOVELY Semiramis Closes her slanting eyes: Dead is she long ago. From her fan, sliding slow, Parrot-bright fire’s feathers, Gilded as June weathers, Plumes bright and shrill as grass Twinkle down; as they pass Through the green glooms in Hell Fruits with a tuneful smell, Grapes like an emerald rain, Where the full moon has lain, Greengages bright as grass, Melons as cold as glass, Piled on each gilded booth, Feel their cheeks growing smooth. Apes in plumed head-dresses Whence the bright heat hisses,-- Nubian faces, sly Pursing mouth, slanting eye, Feel the Arabian Winds floating from the fan: Salesmen with gilded face Paler grow, nod apace; “Oh, the fan’s blowing Cold winds ... It is snowing!”
FIFTEEN BUCOLIC POEMS
I
WHAT THE GOOSEGIRL SAID ABOUT THE DEAN
Turn again, turn again, Goose Clothilda, Goosie Jane!
The wooden waves of people creak From houses built with coloured straws Of heat; Dean Pappus’ long nose snores-- Harsh as a hautbois, marshy-weak.
The wooden waves of people creak Through the fields all water-sleek;
And in among the straws of light Those bumpkin hautbois-sounds take flight,
Whence he lies snoring like the moon, Clownish-white all afternoon,
Beneath the trees’ arsenical Harsh wood-wind tunes. Heretical--
(Blown like the wind’s mane Creaking woodenly again)
His wandering thoughts escape like geese, Till he, their gooseherd, sets up chase, And clouds of wool join the bright race For scattered old simplicities.
II
NOAH
Noah, through green waters slipping sliding like a long sleek eel, Slithered up Mount Ararat and climbed into the Ark,-- Slipping with his long dank hair; and sliding slyly in his barque, Pushed it slowly in a wholly glassy creek until we feel Pink crags tremble under us and wondrous clear waters run Over Shem and Ham and Japhet, moving with their long sleek daughters, Swift as fishes rainbow-coloured darting under morning waters.... Burning seraph beasts sing clearly to the young flamingo Sun.
_Note._--Thanks due to Helen Rootham for her earnest collaboration in this poem.
III
THE GIRL WITH THE LINT-WHITE LOCKS
THE bright-striped wooden fields are edged With noisy cock’s crow trees, scarce fledged--
The trees that spin like tops, all weathers, Like strange birds ruffling glassy feathers.
My hair is white as flocks of geese, And water hisses out of this;
And when the late sun burns my cheek Till it is pink as apples sleek,
I wander in the fields and know Why kings do squander pennies so--
Lest they at last should weight their eyes! But beggars’ ragged minds, more wise,
Know without flesh we cannot see-- And so they hoard stupidity
(The dull ancestral memory That is the only property).
They laugh to see the spring fields edged With noisy cock’s crow trees scarce fledged,
And flowers that grunt to feel their eyes Made clear with sight’s finalities.
IV
THE LADY WITH THE SEWING MACHINE
ACROSS the fields as green as spinach, Cropped as close as Time to Greenwich,
Stands a high house; if at all, Spring comes like a Paisley shawl--
Patternings meticulous And youthfully ridiculous.
In each room the yellow sun Shakes like a canary, run
On run, roulade, and watery trill-- Yellow, meaningless, and shrill.
Face as white as any clock’s, Cased in parsley-dark curled locks,
All day long you sit and sew, Stitch life down for fear it grow,
Stitch life down for fear we guess At the hidden ugliness.
Dusty voice that throbs with heat, Hoping with its steel-thin beat
To put stitches in my mind, Make it tidy, make it kind;
You shall not! I’ll keep it free Though you turn earth sky and sea
To a patchwork quilt to keep Your mind snug and warm in sleep.
V
BY CANDLELIGHT
Houses red as flower of bean, Flickering leaves and shadows lean! Pantalone, like a parrot, Sat and grumbled in the garret, Sat and growled and grumbled till Moon upon the window-sill, Like a red geranium, Scented his bald cranium. Said Brighella, meaning well-- “Pack your box and--go to Hell! Heat will cure your rheumatism.” Silence crowned this optimism. Not a sound and not a wail-- But the fire (lush leafy vale) Watched the angry feathers fly. Pantalone ’gan to cry-- Could not, _would_ not, pack his box. Shadows (curtseying hens and cocks) Pecking in the attic gloom, Tried to smother his tail-plume.... Till a cock’s comb candle-flame, Crowing loudly, died: Dawn came.
VI
SERENADE
The tremulous gold of stars within your hair Are yellow bees flown from the hive of night, Finding the blossom of your eyes more fair Than all the pale flowers folded from the light. Then, Sweet, awake, and ope your dreaming eyes Ere those bright bees have flown and darkness dies.
VII
CLOWNS’ HOUSES
Beneath the flat and paper sky The sun, a demon’s eye, Glowed through the air, that mask of glass; All wand’ring sounds that pass
Seemed out of tune, as if the light Were fiddle-strings pulled tight. The market square with spire and bell Clanged out the hour in Hell.
The busy chatter of the heat Shrilled like a parokeet; And shuddering at the noonday light The dust lay dead and white
As powder on a mummy’s face, Or fawned with simian grace Round booths with many a hard bright toy And wooden brittle joy:
The cap and bells of Time the Clown That, jangling, whistled down Young cherubs hidden in the guise Of every bird that flies;
And star-bright masks for youth to wear, Lest any dream that fare --Bright pilgrim--past our ken, should see Hints of Reality.
Upon the sharp-set grass, shrill-green, Tall trees like rattles lean, And jangle sharp and dizzily; But when night falls they sigh
Till Pierrot moon steals slyly in, His face more white than sin, Black-masked, and with cool touch lays bare Each cherry, plum, and pear.
Then underneath the veilèd eyes Of houses, darkness lies,-- Tall houses; like a hopeless prayer They cleave the sly dumb air.
Blind are those houses, paper-thin; Old shadows hid therein, With sly and crazy movements creep Like marionettes, and weep.
Tall windows show Infinity; And, hard reality, The candles weep and pry and dance Like lives mocked at by Chance.
The rooms are vast as Sleep within: When once I ventured in, Chill Silence, like a surging sea, Slowly enveloped me.
VIII
THE SATYR IN THE PERIWIG
The Satyr Scarabombadon Pulled periwig and breeches on: “Grown old and stiff, this modern dress Adds monstrously to my distress; The gout within a hoofen heel Is _very_ hard to bear; I feel When crushed into a buckled shoe The twinge will be redoubled, too. And when I walk in gardens green And, weeping, think on what has been, Then wipe one eye,--the other sees The plums and cherries on the trees. Small bird-quick women pass me by With sleeves that flutter airily, And baskets blazing like a fire With laughing fruits of my desire; Plums sunburnt as the King of Spain, Gold-cheeked as any Nubian, With strawberries all goldy-freckled, Pears fat as thrushes and as speckled ... Pursue them?... Yes, and squeeze a tear: ‘Please spare poor Satyr one, my dear.’ ‘Be off, sir; go and steal your own!’ --Alas, poor Scarabombadon, They’d rend his ruffles, stretch a twig, Tear off a satyr’s periwig!”
IX
THE MUSLIN GOWN
With spectacles that flash, Striped foolscap hung with gold And silver bells that clash, (Bright rhetoric and cold), In owl-dark garments goes the Rain, Dull pedagogue, again. And in my orchard wood Small song-birds flock and fly, Like cherubs brown and good, When through the trees go I Knee-deep within the dark-leaved sorrel. Cherries red as bells of coral Ring to see me come-- I, with my fruit-dark hair As dark as any plum, My summer gown as white as air And frilled as any quick bird’s there. But oh, what shall I do? Old Owl-wing’s back from town-- He’s skipping through dark trees: I know He _hates_ my summer gown!
X
MISS NETTYBUN AND THE SATYR’S CHILD
As underneath the trees I pass Through emerald shade on hot soft grass, Petunia faces, glowing-hued With heat, cast shadows hard and crude-- Green-velvety as leaves, and small Fine hairs like grass pierce through them all. But these are all asleep--asleep, As through the schoolroom door I creep In search of you, for you evade All the advances I have made. Come, Horace, you must take my hand. This sulking state I will not stand! But you shall feed on strawberry jam At tea-time, if you cease to slam The doors that open from our sense-- Through which I slipped to drag you hence!
XI
QUEEN VENUS AND THE CHOIR-BOY
(TO NAOMI ROYDE SMITH)
The apples grow like silver trumps That red-cheeked fair-haired angels blow-- So clear their juice; on trees in clumps, Feathered as any bird, they grow.
A lady stood amid those crops-- Her voice was like a blue or pink Glass window full of lollipops; Her words were very strange, I think:
“Prince Paris, too, a fair-haired boy Plucked me an apple from dark trees; Since when their smoothness makes my joy; If you will pluck me one of these
I’ll kiss you like a golden wind As clear as any apples be.” And now she haunts my singing mind-- And oh, she will not set me free.
XII
THE APE SEES THE FAT WOMAN
Among the dark and brilliant leaves, Where flowers seem tinsel firework-sheaves,
Blond barley-sugar children stare Through shining apple-trees, and there
A lady like a golden wind Whose hair like apples tumbles kind,
And whose bright name, so I believe, Is sometimes Venus, sometimes Eve,
Stands, her face furrowed like my own With thoughts wherefrom strange seeds are sown,
Whence, long since, stars for bright flowers grew Like periwinkles pink and blue,--
(Queer impulses of bestial kind, Flesh indivisible from mind.)
I, painted like the wooden sun, Must hand-in-hand with angels run--
The tinsel angels of the booth That lead poor yokels to the truth
Through raucous jokes, till we can see That narrow long Eternity
Is but the whip’s lash o’er our eyes-- Spurring to new vitalities.
XIII
THE APE WATCHES “AUNT SALLY”
The apples are an angel’s meat, The shining dark leaves make clear-sweet
The juice; green wooden fruits alway Drop on these flowers as white as day--
Clear angel-face on hairy stalk; (Soul grown from flesh, an ape’s young talk.)
And in this green and lovely ground The Fair, world-like, turns round and round,
And bumpkins throw their pence to shed Aunt Sally’s crude-striped wooden head.
I do not care if men should throw Round sun and moon to make me go,
(As bright as gold and silver pence) ... They cannot drive their own blood hence!
XIV
SPRINGING JACK
Green wooden leaves clap light away, Severely practical, as they
Shelter the children, candy-pale. The chestnut-candles flicker, fail....
The showman’s face is cubed clear as The shapes reflected in a glass
Of water--(glog, glut, a ghost’s speech Fumbling for space from each to each).
The fusty showman fumbles, must Fit in a particle of dust
The universe, for fear it gain Its freedom from my box of brain.
Yet dust bears seeds that grow to grace Behind my crude-striped wooden face
As I, a puppet tinsel-pink, Leap on my springs, learn how to think,
Then like the trembling golden stalk Of some long-petalled star, I walk
Through the dark heavens until dew Falls on my eyes and sense thrills through.
XV
“TOURNEZ, TOURNEZ, BONS CHEVAUX DE BOIS”