As it has been suggested that much of the misunderstanding of the former
volume was due to the fact that we did not explain ourselves in a preface,
we have thought it wise to tell the public what our aims are, and why we
are banded together between one set of covers.
volume was due to the fact that we did not explain ourselves in a preface,
we have thought it wise to tell the public what our aims are, and why we
are banded together between one set of covers.
Imagists
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Title: Some Imagist Poets
An Anthology
Author: Richard Aldington
H. D.
John Gould Fletcher
F. S. Flint
D. H. Lawrence
Amy Lowell
Release Date: October 17, 2009 [EBook #30276]
Language: English
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SOME IMAGIST POETS
SOME IMAGIST
POETS
AN ANTHOLOGY
BOSTON AND NEW YORK
HOUGHTON MIFFLIN COMPANY
The Riverside Press Cambridge
1915
COPYRIGHT, 1915, BY HOUGHTON MIFFLIN COMPANY
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
_Published April 1915_
PREFACE
In March, 1914, a volume appeared entitled "Des Imagistes. " It was a
collection of the work of various young poets, presented together as a
school. This school has been widely discussed by those interested in new
movements in the arts, and has already become a household word.
Differences of taste and judgment, however, have arisen among the
contributors to that book; growing tendencies are forcing them along
different paths. Those of us whose work appears in this volume have
therefore decided to publish our collection under a new title, and we have
been joined by two or three poets who did not contribute to the first
volume, our wider scope making this possible.
In this new book we have followed a slightly different arrangement to that
of the former Anthology. Instead of an arbitrary selection by an editor,
each poet has been permitted to represent himself by the work he considers
his best, the only stipulation being that it should not yet have appeared
in book form. A sort of informal committee--consisting of more than half
the authors here represented--have arranged the book and decided what
should be printed and what omitted, but, as a general rule, the poets
have been allowed absolute freedom in this direction, limitations of space
only being imposed upon them. Also, to avoid any appearance of precedence,
they have been put in alphabetical order.
As it has been suggested that much of the misunderstanding of the former
volume was due to the fact that we did not explain ourselves in a preface,
we have thought it wise to tell the public what our aims are, and why we
are banded together between one set of covers.
The poets in this volume do not represent a clique. Several of them are
personally unknown to the others, but they are united by certain common
principles, arrived at independently. These principles are not new; they
have fallen into desuetude. They are the essentials of all great poetry,
indeed of all great literature, and they are simply these:--
1. To use the language of common speech, but to employ always the _exact_
word, not the nearly-exact, nor the merely decorative word.
2. To create new rhythms--as the expression of new moods--and not to copy
old rhythms, which merely echo old moods. We do not insist upon
"free-verse" as the only method of writing poetry. We fight for it as for
a principle of liberty. We believe that the individuality of a poet may
often be better expressed in free-verse than in conventional forms. In
poetry, a new cadence means a new idea.
3. To allow absolute freedom in the choice of subject. It is not good art
to write badly about aeroplanes and automobiles; nor is it necessarily bad
art to write well about the past. We believe passionately in the artistic
value of modern life, but we wish to point out that there is nothing so
uninspiring nor so old-fashioned as an aeroplane of the year 1911.
4. To present an image (hence the name: "Imagist"). We are not a school of
painters, but we believe that poetry should render particulars exactly and
not deal in vague generalities, however magnificent and sonorous. It is
for this reason that we oppose the cosmic poet, who seems to us to shirk
the real difficulties of his art.
5. To produce poetry that is hard and clear, never blurred nor indefinite.
6. Finally, most of us believe that concentration is of the very essence
of poetry.
The subject of free-verse is too complicated to be discussed here. We may
say briefly, that we attach the term to all that increasing amount of
writing whose cadence is more marked, more definite, and closer knit than
that of prose, but which is not so violently nor so obviously accented as
the so-called "regular verse. " We refer those interested in the question
to the Greek Melic poets, and to the many excellent French studies on the
subject by such distinguished and well-equipped authors as Remy de
Gourmont, Gustave Kahn, Georges Duhamel, Charles Vildrac, Henri Ghéon,
Robert de Souza, André Spire, etc.
We wish it to be clearly understood that we do not represent an exclusive
artistic sect; we publish our work together because of mutual artistic
sympathy, and we propose to bring out our coöperative volume each year for
a short term of years, until we have made a place for ourselves and our
principles such as we desire.
CONTENTS
RICHARD ALDINGTON
Childhood 3
The Poplar 10
Round-Pond 12
Daisy 13
Epigrams 15
The Faun sees Snow for the First Time 16
Lemures 17
H. D.
The Pool 21
The Garden 22
Sea Lily 24
Sea Iris 25
Sea Rose 27
Oread 28
Orion Dead 29
JOHN GOULD FLETCHER
The Blue Symphony 33
London Excursion 39
F. S. FLINT
Trees 53
Lunch 55
Malady 56
Accident 58
Fragment 60
Houses 62
Eau-Forte 63
D. H. LAWRENCE
Ballad of Another Ophelia 67
Illicit 69
Fireflies in the Corn 70
A Woman and Her Dead Husband 72
The Mowers 75
Scent of Irises 76
Green 78
AMY LOWELL
Venus Transiens 81
The Travelling Bear 83
The Letter 85
Grotesque 86
Bullion 87
Solitaire 88
The Bombardment 89
BIBLIOGRAPHY 93
Thanks are due to the editors of _Poetry_, _The Smart Set_,
_Poetry and Drama_, and _The Egoist_ for their courteous
permission to reprint certain of these poems which have been
copyrighted to them.
RICHARD ALDINGTON
RICHARD ALDINGTON
CHILDHOOD
I
The bitterness, the misery, the wretchedness of childhood
Put me out of love with God.
I can't believe in God's goodness;
I can believe
In many avenging gods.
Most of all I believe
In gods of bitter dullness,
Cruel local gods
Who seared my childhood.
II
I've seen people put
A chrysalis in a match-box,
"To see," they told me, "what sort of moth would come. "
But when it broke its shell
It slipped and stumbled and fell about its prison
And tried to climb to the light
For space to dry its wings.
That's how I was.
Somebody found my chrysalis
And shut it in a match-box.
My shrivelled wings were beaten,
Shed their colours in dusty scales
Before the box was opened
For the moth to fly.
And then it was too late,
Because the beauty a child has,
And the beautiful things it learns before its birth,
Were shed, like moth-scales, from me.
III
I hate that town;
I hate the town I lived in when I was little;
I hate to think of it.
There were always clouds, smoke, rain
In that dingy little valley.
It rained; it always rained.
I think I never saw the sun until I was nine--
And then it was too late;
Everything's too late after the first seven years.
That long street we lived in
Was duller than a drain
And nearly as dingy.
There were the big College
And the pseudo-Gothic town-hall.
There were the sordid provincial shops--
The grocer's, and the shops for women,
The shop where I bought transfers,
And the piano and gramaphone shop
Where I used to stand
Staring at the huge shiny pianos and at the pictures
Of a white dog looking into a gramaphone.
How dull and greasy and grey and sordid it was!
On wet days--it was always wet--
I used to kneel on a chair
And look at it from the window.
The dirty yellow trams
Dragged noisily along
With a clatter of wheels and bells
And a humming of wires overhead.
They threw up the filthy rain-water from the hollow lines
And then the water ran back
Full of brownish foam bubbles.
There was nothing else to see--
It was all so dull--
Except a few grey legs under shiny black umbrellas
Running along the grey shiny pavements;
Sometimes there was a waggon
Whose horses made a strange loud hollow sound
With their hoofs
Through the silent rain.
And there was a grey museum
Full of dead birds and dead insects and dead animals
And a few relics of the Romans--dead also.
There was the sea-front,
A long asphalt walk with a bleak road beside it,
Three piers, a row of houses,
And a salt dirty smell from the little harbour.
I was like a moth---
Like one of those grey Emperor moths
Which flutter through the vines at Capri.
And that damned little town was my match-box,
Against whose sides I beat and beat
Until my wings were torn and faded, and dingy
As that damned little town.
IV
At school it was just dull as that dull High Street.
They taught me pothooks--
I wanted to be alone, although I was so little,
Alone, away from the rain, the dingyness, the dullness,
Away somewhere else--
The town was dull;
The front was dull;
The High Street and the other street were dull--
And there was a public park, I remember,
And that was damned dull too,
With its beds of geraniums no one was allowed to pick,
And its clipped lawns you weren't allowed to walk on,
And the gold-fish pond you mustn't paddle in,
And the gate made out of a whale's jaw-bones,
And the swings, which were for "Board-School children,"
And its gravel paths.
And on Sundays they rang the bells,
From Baptist and Evangelical and Catholic churches.
They had the Salvation Army.
I was taken to a High Church;
The parson's name was Mowbray,
"Which is a good name but he thinks too much of it--"
That's what I heard people say.
I took a little black book
To that cold, grey, damp, smelling church,
And I had to sit on a hard bench,
Wriggle off it to kneel down when they sang psalms,
And wriggle off it to kneel down when they prayed--
And then there was nothing to do
Except to play trains with the hymn-books.
There was nothing to see,
Nothing to do,
Nothing to play with,
Except that in an empty room upstairs
There was a large tin box
Containing reproductions of the Magna Charta,
Of the Declaration of Independence
And of a letter from Raleigh after the Armada.
There were also several packets of stamps,
Yellow and blue Guatemala parrots,
Blue stags and red baboons and birds from Sarawak,
Indians and Men-of-war
From the United States,
And the green and red portraits
Of King Francobollo
Of Italy.
V
I don't believe in God.
I do believe in avenging gods
Who plague us for sins we never sinned
But who avenge us.
That's why I'll never have a child,
Never shut up a chrysalis in a match-box
For the moth to spoil and crush its bright colours,
Beating its wings against the dingy prison-wall.
THE POPLAR
Why do you always stand there shivering
Between the white stream and the road?
The people pass through the dust
On bicycles, in carts, in motor-cars;
The waggoners go by at dawn;
The lovers walk on the grass path at night.
Stir from your roots, walk, poplar!
You are more beautiful than they are.
I know that the white wind loves you,
Is always kissing you and turning up
The white lining of your green petticoat.
The sky darts through you like blue rain,
And the grey rain drips on your flanks
And loves you.
And I have seen the moon
Slip his silver penny into your pocket
As you straightened your hair;
And the white mist curling and hesitating
Like a bashful lover about your knees.
I know you, poplar;
I have watched you since I was ten.
But if you had a little real love,
A little strength,
You would leave your nonchalant idle lovers
And go walking down the white road
Behind the waggoners.
There are beautiful beeches down beyond the hill.
Will you always stand there shivering?
ROUND-POND
Water ruffled and speckled by galloping wind
Which puffs and spurts it into tiny pashing breakers
Dashed with lemon-yellow afternoon sunlight.
The shining of the sun upon the water
Is like a scattering of gold crocus-petals
In a long wavering irregular flight.
The water is cold to the eye
As the wind to the cheek.
In the budding chestnuts
Whose sticky buds glimmer and are half-burst open
The starlings make their clitter-clatter;
And the blackbirds in the grass
Are getting as fat as the pigeons.
Too-hoo, this is brave;
Even the cold wind is seeking a new mistress.
DAISY
"_Plus quam se atque suos amavit omnes,
Nunc_. . . "
CATULLUS.
You were my playmate by the sea.
We swam together.
Your girl's body had no breasts.
We found prawns among the rocks;
We liked to feel the sun and to do nothing;
In the evening we played games with the others.
It made me glad to be by you.
Sometimes I kissed you,
And you were always glad to kiss me;
But I was afraid--I was only fourteen.
And I had quite forgotten you,
You and your name.
To-day I pass through the streets.
She who touches my arm and talks with me
Is--who knows? --Helen of Sparta,
Dryope, Laodamia. . . .
And there are you
A whore in Oxford Street.
EPIGRAMS
A GIRL
You were that clear Sicilian fluting
That pains our thought even now.
You were the notes
Of cold fantastic grief
Some few found beautiful.
NEW LOVE
She has new leaves
After her dead flowers,
Like the little almond-tree
Which the frost hurt.
OCTOBER
The beech-leaves are silver
For lack of the tree's blood.
At your kiss my lips
Become like the autumn beech-leaves.
THE FAUN SEES SNOW FOR THE FIRST TIME
Zeus,
Brazen-thunder-hurler,
Cloud-whirler, son-of-Kronos,
Send vengeance on these Oreads
Who strew
White frozen flecks of mist and cloud
Over the brown trees and the tufted grass
Of the meadows, where the stream
Runs black through shining banks
Of bluish white.
Zeus,
Are the halls of heaven broken up
That you flake down upon me
Feather-strips of marble?
Dis and Styx!
When I stamp my hoof
The frozen-cloud-specks jam into the cleft
So that I reel upon two slippery points. . . .
Fool, to stand here cursing
When I might be running!
LEMURES
In Nineveh
And beyond Nineveh
In the dusk
They were afraid.
In Thebes of Egypt
In the dusk
They chanted of them to the dead.
In my Lesbos and Achaia
Where the God dwelt
We knew them.
Now men say "They are not":
But in the dusk
Ere the white sun comes--
A gay child that bears a white candle--
I am afraid of their rustling,
Of their terrible silence,
The menace of their secrecy.
H. D.
H. D.
THE POOL
Are you alive?
I touch you.
You quiver like a sea-fish.
I cover you with my net.
What are you--banded one?
THE GARDEN
I
You are clear,
O rose, cut in rock,
hard as the descent of hail.
I could scrape the colour
from the petal,
like spilt dye from a rock.
If I could break you
I could break a tree.
If I could stir
I could break a tree,
I could break you.
II
O wind,
rend open the heat,
cut apart the heat,
rend it sideways.
Fruit can not drop
through this thick air:
fruit can not fall into heat
that presses up and blunts
the points of pears
and rounds the grapes.
Cut the heat,
plough through it,
turning it on either side
of your path.
SEA LILY
Reed,
slashed and torn,
but doubly rich--
such great heads as yours
drift upon temple-steps,
but you are shattered
in the wind.
Myrtle-bark
is flecked from you,
scales are dashed
from your stem,
sand cuts your petal,
furrows it with hard edge,
like flint
on a bright stone.
Yet though the whole wind
slash at your bark,
you are lifted up,
aye--though it hiss
to cover you with froth.
SEA IRIS
I
Weed, moss-weed,
root tangled in sand,
sea-iris, brittle flower,
one petal like a shell
is broken,
and you print a shadow
like a thin twig.
Fortunate one,
scented and stinging,
rigid myrrh-bud,
camphor-flower,
sweet and salt--you are wind
in our nostrils.
II
Do the murex-fishers
drench you as they pass?
Do your roots drag up colour
from the sand?
Have they slipped gold under you;
rivets of gold?
Band of iris-flowers
above the waves,
You are painted blue,
painted like a fresh prow
stained among the salt weeds.
SEA ROSE
Rose, harsh rose,
marred and with stint of petals,
meagre flower, thin,
sparse of leaf.
more precious
than a wet rose,
single on a stem--
you are caught in the drift.
Stunted, with small leaf,
you are flung on the sands,
you are lifted
in the crisp sand
that drives in the wind.
Can the spice-rose
drip such acrid fragrance
hardened in a leaf?
OREAD
Whirl up, sea--
Whirl your pointed pines,
Splash your great pines
On our rocks,
Hurl your green over us,
Cover us with your pools of fir.
ORION DEAD
[_Artemis speaks_]
The cornel-trees
uplift from the furrows,
the roots at their bases
strike lower through the barley-sprays.
So arise and face me.
I am poisoned with the rage of song.
_I once pierced the flesh
of the wild-deer,
now am I afraid to touch
the blue and the gold-veined hyacinths? _
_I will tear the full flowers
and the little heads
of the grape-hyacinths.
I will strip the life from the bulb
until the ivory layers
lie like narcissus petals
on the black earth. _
_Arise,
lest I bend an ash-tree
into a taut bow,
and slay--and tear
all the roots from the earth. _
The cornel-wood blazes
and strikes through the barley-sprays,
but I have lost heart for this.
I break a staff.
I break the tough branch.
I know no light in the woods.
I have lost pace with the winds.
JOHN GOULD FLETCHER
JOHN GOULD FLETCHER
THE BLUE SYMPHONY
I
The darkness rolls upward.
The thick darkness carries with it
Rain and a ravel of cloud.
The sun comes forth upon earth.
Palely the dawn
Leaves me facing timidly
Old gardens sunken:
And in the gardens is water.
Sombre wreck--autumnal leaves;
Shadowy roofs
In the blue mist,
And a willow-branch that is broken.
O old pagodas of my soul, how you glittered across green trees!
Blue and cool:
Blue, tremulously,
Blow faint puffs of smoke
Across sombre pools.
The damp green smell of rotted wood;
And a heron that cries from out the water.
As it has been suggested that much of the misunderstanding of the former
volume was due to the fact that we did not explain ourselves in a preface,
we have thought it wise to tell the public what our aims are, and why we
are banded together between one set of covers.
The poets in this volume do not represent a clique. Several of them are
personally unknown to the others, but they are united by certain common
principles, arrived at independently. These principles are not new; they
have fallen into desuetude. They are the essentials of all great poetry,
indeed of all great literature, and they are simply these:--
1. To use the language of common speech, but to employ always the _exact_
word, not the nearly-exact, nor the merely decorative word.
2. To create new rhythms--as the expression of new moods--and not to copy
old rhythms, which merely echo old moods. We do not insist upon
"free-verse" as the only method of writing poetry. We fight for it as for
a principle of liberty. We believe that the individuality of a poet may
often be better expressed in free-verse than in conventional forms. In
poetry, a new cadence means a new idea.
3. To allow absolute freedom in the choice of subject. It is not good art
to write badly about aeroplanes and automobiles; nor is it necessarily bad
art to write well about the past. We believe passionately in the artistic
value of modern life, but we wish to point out that there is nothing so
uninspiring nor so old-fashioned as an aeroplane of the year 1911.
4. To present an image (hence the name: "Imagist"). We are not a school of
painters, but we believe that poetry should render particulars exactly and
not deal in vague generalities, however magnificent and sonorous. It is
for this reason that we oppose the cosmic poet, who seems to us to shirk
the real difficulties of his art.
5. To produce poetry that is hard and clear, never blurred nor indefinite.
6. Finally, most of us believe that concentration is of the very essence
of poetry.
The subject of free-verse is too complicated to be discussed here. We may
say briefly, that we attach the term to all that increasing amount of
writing whose cadence is more marked, more definite, and closer knit than
that of prose, but which is not so violently nor so obviously accented as
the so-called "regular verse. " We refer those interested in the question
to the Greek Melic poets, and to the many excellent French studies on the
subject by such distinguished and well-equipped authors as Remy de
Gourmont, Gustave Kahn, Georges Duhamel, Charles Vildrac, Henri Ghéon,
Robert de Souza, André Spire, etc.
We wish it to be clearly understood that we do not represent an exclusive
artistic sect; we publish our work together because of mutual artistic
sympathy, and we propose to bring out our coöperative volume each year for
a short term of years, until we have made a place for ourselves and our
principles such as we desire.
CONTENTS
RICHARD ALDINGTON
Childhood 3
The Poplar 10
Round-Pond 12
Daisy 13
Epigrams 15
The Faun sees Snow for the First Time 16
Lemures 17
H. D.
The Pool 21
The Garden 22
Sea Lily 24
Sea Iris 25
Sea Rose 27
Oread 28
Orion Dead 29
JOHN GOULD FLETCHER
The Blue Symphony 33
London Excursion 39
F. S. FLINT
Trees 53
Lunch 55
Malady 56
Accident 58
Fragment 60
Houses 62
Eau-Forte 63
D. H. LAWRENCE
Ballad of Another Ophelia 67
Illicit 69
Fireflies in the Corn 70
A Woman and Her Dead Husband 72
The Mowers 75
Scent of Irises 76
Green 78
AMY LOWELL
Venus Transiens 81
The Travelling Bear 83
The Letter 85
Grotesque 86
Bullion 87
Solitaire 88
The Bombardment 89
BIBLIOGRAPHY 93
Thanks are due to the editors of _Poetry_, _The Smart Set_,
_Poetry and Drama_, and _The Egoist_ for their courteous
permission to reprint certain of these poems which have been
copyrighted to them.
RICHARD ALDINGTON
RICHARD ALDINGTON
CHILDHOOD
I
The bitterness, the misery, the wretchedness of childhood
Put me out of love with God.
I can't believe in God's goodness;
I can believe
In many avenging gods.
Most of all I believe
In gods of bitter dullness,
Cruel local gods
Who seared my childhood.
II
I've seen people put
A chrysalis in a match-box,
"To see," they told me, "what sort of moth would come. "
But when it broke its shell
It slipped and stumbled and fell about its prison
And tried to climb to the light
For space to dry its wings.
That's how I was.
Somebody found my chrysalis
And shut it in a match-box.
My shrivelled wings were beaten,
Shed their colours in dusty scales
Before the box was opened
For the moth to fly.
And then it was too late,
Because the beauty a child has,
And the beautiful things it learns before its birth,
Were shed, like moth-scales, from me.
III
I hate that town;
I hate the town I lived in when I was little;
I hate to think of it.
There were always clouds, smoke, rain
In that dingy little valley.
It rained; it always rained.
I think I never saw the sun until I was nine--
And then it was too late;
Everything's too late after the first seven years.
That long street we lived in
Was duller than a drain
And nearly as dingy.
There were the big College
And the pseudo-Gothic town-hall.
There were the sordid provincial shops--
The grocer's, and the shops for women,
The shop where I bought transfers,
And the piano and gramaphone shop
Where I used to stand
Staring at the huge shiny pianos and at the pictures
Of a white dog looking into a gramaphone.
How dull and greasy and grey and sordid it was!
On wet days--it was always wet--
I used to kneel on a chair
And look at it from the window.
The dirty yellow trams
Dragged noisily along
With a clatter of wheels and bells
And a humming of wires overhead.
They threw up the filthy rain-water from the hollow lines
And then the water ran back
Full of brownish foam bubbles.
There was nothing else to see--
It was all so dull--
Except a few grey legs under shiny black umbrellas
Running along the grey shiny pavements;
Sometimes there was a waggon
Whose horses made a strange loud hollow sound
With their hoofs
Through the silent rain.
And there was a grey museum
Full of dead birds and dead insects and dead animals
And a few relics of the Romans--dead also.
There was the sea-front,
A long asphalt walk with a bleak road beside it,
Three piers, a row of houses,
And a salt dirty smell from the little harbour.
I was like a moth---
Like one of those grey Emperor moths
Which flutter through the vines at Capri.
And that damned little town was my match-box,
Against whose sides I beat and beat
Until my wings were torn and faded, and dingy
As that damned little town.
IV
At school it was just dull as that dull High Street.
They taught me pothooks--
I wanted to be alone, although I was so little,
Alone, away from the rain, the dingyness, the dullness,
Away somewhere else--
The town was dull;
The front was dull;
The High Street and the other street were dull--
And there was a public park, I remember,
And that was damned dull too,
With its beds of geraniums no one was allowed to pick,
And its clipped lawns you weren't allowed to walk on,
And the gold-fish pond you mustn't paddle in,
And the gate made out of a whale's jaw-bones,
And the swings, which were for "Board-School children,"
And its gravel paths.
And on Sundays they rang the bells,
From Baptist and Evangelical and Catholic churches.
They had the Salvation Army.
I was taken to a High Church;
The parson's name was Mowbray,
"Which is a good name but he thinks too much of it--"
That's what I heard people say.
I took a little black book
To that cold, grey, damp, smelling church,
And I had to sit on a hard bench,
Wriggle off it to kneel down when they sang psalms,
And wriggle off it to kneel down when they prayed--
And then there was nothing to do
Except to play trains with the hymn-books.
There was nothing to see,
Nothing to do,
Nothing to play with,
Except that in an empty room upstairs
There was a large tin box
Containing reproductions of the Magna Charta,
Of the Declaration of Independence
And of a letter from Raleigh after the Armada.
There were also several packets of stamps,
Yellow and blue Guatemala parrots,
Blue stags and red baboons and birds from Sarawak,
Indians and Men-of-war
From the United States,
And the green and red portraits
Of King Francobollo
Of Italy.
V
I don't believe in God.
I do believe in avenging gods
Who plague us for sins we never sinned
But who avenge us.
That's why I'll never have a child,
Never shut up a chrysalis in a match-box
For the moth to spoil and crush its bright colours,
Beating its wings against the dingy prison-wall.
THE POPLAR
Why do you always stand there shivering
Between the white stream and the road?
The people pass through the dust
On bicycles, in carts, in motor-cars;
The waggoners go by at dawn;
The lovers walk on the grass path at night.
Stir from your roots, walk, poplar!
You are more beautiful than they are.
I know that the white wind loves you,
Is always kissing you and turning up
The white lining of your green petticoat.
The sky darts through you like blue rain,
And the grey rain drips on your flanks
And loves you.
And I have seen the moon
Slip his silver penny into your pocket
As you straightened your hair;
And the white mist curling and hesitating
Like a bashful lover about your knees.
I know you, poplar;
I have watched you since I was ten.
But if you had a little real love,
A little strength,
You would leave your nonchalant idle lovers
And go walking down the white road
Behind the waggoners.
There are beautiful beeches down beyond the hill.
Will you always stand there shivering?
ROUND-POND
Water ruffled and speckled by galloping wind
Which puffs and spurts it into tiny pashing breakers
Dashed with lemon-yellow afternoon sunlight.
The shining of the sun upon the water
Is like a scattering of gold crocus-petals
In a long wavering irregular flight.
The water is cold to the eye
As the wind to the cheek.
In the budding chestnuts
Whose sticky buds glimmer and are half-burst open
The starlings make their clitter-clatter;
And the blackbirds in the grass
Are getting as fat as the pigeons.
Too-hoo, this is brave;
Even the cold wind is seeking a new mistress.
DAISY
"_Plus quam se atque suos amavit omnes,
Nunc_. . . "
CATULLUS.
You were my playmate by the sea.
We swam together.
Your girl's body had no breasts.
We found prawns among the rocks;
We liked to feel the sun and to do nothing;
In the evening we played games with the others.
It made me glad to be by you.
Sometimes I kissed you,
And you were always glad to kiss me;
But I was afraid--I was only fourteen.
And I had quite forgotten you,
You and your name.
To-day I pass through the streets.
She who touches my arm and talks with me
Is--who knows? --Helen of Sparta,
Dryope, Laodamia. . . .
And there are you
A whore in Oxford Street.
EPIGRAMS
A GIRL
You were that clear Sicilian fluting
That pains our thought even now.
You were the notes
Of cold fantastic grief
Some few found beautiful.
NEW LOVE
She has new leaves
After her dead flowers,
Like the little almond-tree
Which the frost hurt.
OCTOBER
The beech-leaves are silver
For lack of the tree's blood.
At your kiss my lips
Become like the autumn beech-leaves.
THE FAUN SEES SNOW FOR THE FIRST TIME
Zeus,
Brazen-thunder-hurler,
Cloud-whirler, son-of-Kronos,
Send vengeance on these Oreads
Who strew
White frozen flecks of mist and cloud
Over the brown trees and the tufted grass
Of the meadows, where the stream
Runs black through shining banks
Of bluish white.
Zeus,
Are the halls of heaven broken up
That you flake down upon me
Feather-strips of marble?
Dis and Styx!
When I stamp my hoof
The frozen-cloud-specks jam into the cleft
So that I reel upon two slippery points. . . .
Fool, to stand here cursing
When I might be running!
LEMURES
In Nineveh
And beyond Nineveh
In the dusk
They were afraid.
In Thebes of Egypt
In the dusk
They chanted of them to the dead.
In my Lesbos and Achaia
Where the God dwelt
We knew them.
Now men say "They are not":
But in the dusk
Ere the white sun comes--
A gay child that bears a white candle--
I am afraid of their rustling,
Of their terrible silence,
The menace of their secrecy.
H. D.
H. D.
THE POOL
Are you alive?
I touch you.
You quiver like a sea-fish.
I cover you with my net.
What are you--banded one?
THE GARDEN
I
You are clear,
O rose, cut in rock,
hard as the descent of hail.
I could scrape the colour
from the petal,
like spilt dye from a rock.
If I could break you
I could break a tree.
If I could stir
I could break a tree,
I could break you.
II
O wind,
rend open the heat,
cut apart the heat,
rend it sideways.
Fruit can not drop
through this thick air:
fruit can not fall into heat
that presses up and blunts
the points of pears
and rounds the grapes.
Cut the heat,
plough through it,
turning it on either side
of your path.
SEA LILY
Reed,
slashed and torn,
but doubly rich--
such great heads as yours
drift upon temple-steps,
but you are shattered
in the wind.
Myrtle-bark
is flecked from you,
scales are dashed
from your stem,
sand cuts your petal,
furrows it with hard edge,
like flint
on a bright stone.
Yet though the whole wind
slash at your bark,
you are lifted up,
aye--though it hiss
to cover you with froth.
SEA IRIS
I
Weed, moss-weed,
root tangled in sand,
sea-iris, brittle flower,
one petal like a shell
is broken,
and you print a shadow
like a thin twig.
Fortunate one,
scented and stinging,
rigid myrrh-bud,
camphor-flower,
sweet and salt--you are wind
in our nostrils.
II
Do the murex-fishers
drench you as they pass?
Do your roots drag up colour
from the sand?
Have they slipped gold under you;
rivets of gold?
Band of iris-flowers
above the waves,
You are painted blue,
painted like a fresh prow
stained among the salt weeds.
SEA ROSE
Rose, harsh rose,
marred and with stint of petals,
meagre flower, thin,
sparse of leaf.
more precious
than a wet rose,
single on a stem--
you are caught in the drift.
Stunted, with small leaf,
you are flung on the sands,
you are lifted
in the crisp sand
that drives in the wind.
Can the spice-rose
drip such acrid fragrance
hardened in a leaf?
OREAD
Whirl up, sea--
Whirl your pointed pines,
Splash your great pines
On our rocks,
Hurl your green over us,
Cover us with your pools of fir.
ORION DEAD
[_Artemis speaks_]
The cornel-trees
uplift from the furrows,
the roots at their bases
strike lower through the barley-sprays.
So arise and face me.
I am poisoned with the rage of song.
_I once pierced the flesh
of the wild-deer,
now am I afraid to touch
the blue and the gold-veined hyacinths? _
_I will tear the full flowers
and the little heads
of the grape-hyacinths.
I will strip the life from the bulb
until the ivory layers
lie like narcissus petals
on the black earth. _
_Arise,
lest I bend an ash-tree
into a taut bow,
and slay--and tear
all the roots from the earth. _
The cornel-wood blazes
and strikes through the barley-sprays,
but I have lost heart for this.
I break a staff.
I break the tough branch.
I know no light in the woods.
I have lost pace with the winds.
JOHN GOULD FLETCHER
JOHN GOULD FLETCHER
THE BLUE SYMPHONY
I
The darkness rolls upward.
The thick darkness carries with it
Rain and a ravel of cloud.
The sun comes forth upon earth.
Palely the dawn
Leaves me facing timidly
Old gardens sunken:
And in the gardens is water.
Sombre wreck--autumnal leaves;
Shadowy roofs
In the blue mist,
And a willow-branch that is broken.
O old pagodas of my soul, how you glittered across green trees!
Blue and cool:
Blue, tremulously,
Blow faint puffs of smoke
Across sombre pools.
The damp green smell of rotted wood;
And a heron that cries from out the water.
II
Through the upland meadows
I go alone.
For I dreamed of someone last night
Who is waiting for me.
Flower and blossom, tell me do you know of her?
Have the rocks hidden her voice?
They are very blue and still.
Long upward road that is leading me,
Light hearted I quit you,
For the long loose ripples of the meadow-grass
Invite me to dance upon them.
Quivering grass
Daintily poised
For her foot's tripping.
O blown clouds, could I only race up like you,
Oh, the last slopes that are sun-drenched and steep!
Look, the sky!
Across black valleys
Rise blue-white aloft
Jagged, unwrinkled mountains, ranges of death.
Solitude. Silence.
III
One chuckles by the brook for me:
One rages under the stone.
One makes a spout of his mouth,
One whispers--one is gone.
One over there on the water
Spreads cold ripples
For me
Enticingly.
The vast dark trees
Flow like blue veils
Of tears
Into the water.
Sour sprites,
Moaning and chuckling,
What have you hidden from me?
"In the palace of the blue stone she lies forever
Bound hand and foot. "
Was it the wind
That rattled the reeds together?
Dry reeds,
A faint shiver in the grasses.
IV
On the left hand there is a temple:
And a palace on the right-hand side.
Foot-passengers in scarlet
Pass over the glittering tide.
Under the bridge
The old river flows
Low and monotonous
Day after day.
I have heard and have seen
All the news that has been:
Autumn's gold and Spring's green!
Now in my palace
I see foot-passengers
Crossing the river:
Pilgrims of Autumn
In the afternoons.
Lotus pools:
Petals in the water.
Such are my dreams.
For me silks are outspread.
I take my ease, unthinking.
Richard Aldington and H. D. and John Gould Fletcher and F. S. Flint and D. H. Lawrence and Amy Lowell
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Title: Some Imagist Poets
An Anthology
Author: Richard Aldington
H. D.
John Gould Fletcher
F. S. Flint
D. H. Lawrence
Amy Lowell
Release Date: October 17, 2009 [EBook #30276]
Language: English
*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK SOME IMAGIST POETS ***
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SOME IMAGIST POETS
SOME IMAGIST
POETS
AN ANTHOLOGY
BOSTON AND NEW YORK
HOUGHTON MIFFLIN COMPANY
The Riverside Press Cambridge
1915
COPYRIGHT, 1915, BY HOUGHTON MIFFLIN COMPANY
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
_Published April 1915_
PREFACE
In March, 1914, a volume appeared entitled "Des Imagistes. " It was a
collection of the work of various young poets, presented together as a
school. This school has been widely discussed by those interested in new
movements in the arts, and has already become a household word.
Differences of taste and judgment, however, have arisen among the
contributors to that book; growing tendencies are forcing them along
different paths. Those of us whose work appears in this volume have
therefore decided to publish our collection under a new title, and we have
been joined by two or three poets who did not contribute to the first
volume, our wider scope making this possible.
In this new book we have followed a slightly different arrangement to that
of the former Anthology. Instead of an arbitrary selection by an editor,
each poet has been permitted to represent himself by the work he considers
his best, the only stipulation being that it should not yet have appeared
in book form. A sort of informal committee--consisting of more than half
the authors here represented--have arranged the book and decided what
should be printed and what omitted, but, as a general rule, the poets
have been allowed absolute freedom in this direction, limitations of space
only being imposed upon them. Also, to avoid any appearance of precedence,
they have been put in alphabetical order.
As it has been suggested that much of the misunderstanding of the former
volume was due to the fact that we did not explain ourselves in a preface,
we have thought it wise to tell the public what our aims are, and why we
are banded together between one set of covers.
The poets in this volume do not represent a clique. Several of them are
personally unknown to the others, but they are united by certain common
principles, arrived at independently. These principles are not new; they
have fallen into desuetude. They are the essentials of all great poetry,
indeed of all great literature, and they are simply these:--
1. To use the language of common speech, but to employ always the _exact_
word, not the nearly-exact, nor the merely decorative word.
2. To create new rhythms--as the expression of new moods--and not to copy
old rhythms, which merely echo old moods. We do not insist upon
"free-verse" as the only method of writing poetry. We fight for it as for
a principle of liberty. We believe that the individuality of a poet may
often be better expressed in free-verse than in conventional forms. In
poetry, a new cadence means a new idea.
3. To allow absolute freedom in the choice of subject. It is not good art
to write badly about aeroplanes and automobiles; nor is it necessarily bad
art to write well about the past. We believe passionately in the artistic
value of modern life, but we wish to point out that there is nothing so
uninspiring nor so old-fashioned as an aeroplane of the year 1911.
4. To present an image (hence the name: "Imagist"). We are not a school of
painters, but we believe that poetry should render particulars exactly and
not deal in vague generalities, however magnificent and sonorous. It is
for this reason that we oppose the cosmic poet, who seems to us to shirk
the real difficulties of his art.
5. To produce poetry that is hard and clear, never blurred nor indefinite.
6. Finally, most of us believe that concentration is of the very essence
of poetry.
The subject of free-verse is too complicated to be discussed here. We may
say briefly, that we attach the term to all that increasing amount of
writing whose cadence is more marked, more definite, and closer knit than
that of prose, but which is not so violently nor so obviously accented as
the so-called "regular verse. " We refer those interested in the question
to the Greek Melic poets, and to the many excellent French studies on the
subject by such distinguished and well-equipped authors as Remy de
Gourmont, Gustave Kahn, Georges Duhamel, Charles Vildrac, Henri Ghéon,
Robert de Souza, André Spire, etc.
We wish it to be clearly understood that we do not represent an exclusive
artistic sect; we publish our work together because of mutual artistic
sympathy, and we propose to bring out our coöperative volume each year for
a short term of years, until we have made a place for ourselves and our
principles such as we desire.
CONTENTS
RICHARD ALDINGTON
Childhood 3
The Poplar 10
Round-Pond 12
Daisy 13
Epigrams 15
The Faun sees Snow for the First Time 16
Lemures 17
H. D.
The Pool 21
The Garden 22
Sea Lily 24
Sea Iris 25
Sea Rose 27
Oread 28
Orion Dead 29
JOHN GOULD FLETCHER
The Blue Symphony 33
London Excursion 39
F. S. FLINT
Trees 53
Lunch 55
Malady 56
Accident 58
Fragment 60
Houses 62
Eau-Forte 63
D. H. LAWRENCE
Ballad of Another Ophelia 67
Illicit 69
Fireflies in the Corn 70
A Woman and Her Dead Husband 72
The Mowers 75
Scent of Irises 76
Green 78
AMY LOWELL
Venus Transiens 81
The Travelling Bear 83
The Letter 85
Grotesque 86
Bullion 87
Solitaire 88
The Bombardment 89
BIBLIOGRAPHY 93
Thanks are due to the editors of _Poetry_, _The Smart Set_,
_Poetry and Drama_, and _The Egoist_ for their courteous
permission to reprint certain of these poems which have been
copyrighted to them.
RICHARD ALDINGTON
RICHARD ALDINGTON
CHILDHOOD
I
The bitterness, the misery, the wretchedness of childhood
Put me out of love with God.
I can't believe in God's goodness;
I can believe
In many avenging gods.
Most of all I believe
In gods of bitter dullness,
Cruel local gods
Who seared my childhood.
II
I've seen people put
A chrysalis in a match-box,
"To see," they told me, "what sort of moth would come. "
But when it broke its shell
It slipped and stumbled and fell about its prison
And tried to climb to the light
For space to dry its wings.
That's how I was.
Somebody found my chrysalis
And shut it in a match-box.
My shrivelled wings were beaten,
Shed their colours in dusty scales
Before the box was opened
For the moth to fly.
And then it was too late,
Because the beauty a child has,
And the beautiful things it learns before its birth,
Were shed, like moth-scales, from me.
III
I hate that town;
I hate the town I lived in when I was little;
I hate to think of it.
There were always clouds, smoke, rain
In that dingy little valley.
It rained; it always rained.
I think I never saw the sun until I was nine--
And then it was too late;
Everything's too late after the first seven years.
That long street we lived in
Was duller than a drain
And nearly as dingy.
There were the big College
And the pseudo-Gothic town-hall.
There were the sordid provincial shops--
The grocer's, and the shops for women,
The shop where I bought transfers,
And the piano and gramaphone shop
Where I used to stand
Staring at the huge shiny pianos and at the pictures
Of a white dog looking into a gramaphone.
How dull and greasy and grey and sordid it was!
On wet days--it was always wet--
I used to kneel on a chair
And look at it from the window.
The dirty yellow trams
Dragged noisily along
With a clatter of wheels and bells
And a humming of wires overhead.
They threw up the filthy rain-water from the hollow lines
And then the water ran back
Full of brownish foam bubbles.
There was nothing else to see--
It was all so dull--
Except a few grey legs under shiny black umbrellas
Running along the grey shiny pavements;
Sometimes there was a waggon
Whose horses made a strange loud hollow sound
With their hoofs
Through the silent rain.
And there was a grey museum
Full of dead birds and dead insects and dead animals
And a few relics of the Romans--dead also.
There was the sea-front,
A long asphalt walk with a bleak road beside it,
Three piers, a row of houses,
And a salt dirty smell from the little harbour.
I was like a moth---
Like one of those grey Emperor moths
Which flutter through the vines at Capri.
And that damned little town was my match-box,
Against whose sides I beat and beat
Until my wings were torn and faded, and dingy
As that damned little town.
IV
At school it was just dull as that dull High Street.
They taught me pothooks--
I wanted to be alone, although I was so little,
Alone, away from the rain, the dingyness, the dullness,
Away somewhere else--
The town was dull;
The front was dull;
The High Street and the other street were dull--
And there was a public park, I remember,
And that was damned dull too,
With its beds of geraniums no one was allowed to pick,
And its clipped lawns you weren't allowed to walk on,
And the gold-fish pond you mustn't paddle in,
And the gate made out of a whale's jaw-bones,
And the swings, which were for "Board-School children,"
And its gravel paths.
And on Sundays they rang the bells,
From Baptist and Evangelical and Catholic churches.
They had the Salvation Army.
I was taken to a High Church;
The parson's name was Mowbray,
"Which is a good name but he thinks too much of it--"
That's what I heard people say.
I took a little black book
To that cold, grey, damp, smelling church,
And I had to sit on a hard bench,
Wriggle off it to kneel down when they sang psalms,
And wriggle off it to kneel down when they prayed--
And then there was nothing to do
Except to play trains with the hymn-books.
There was nothing to see,
Nothing to do,
Nothing to play with,
Except that in an empty room upstairs
There was a large tin box
Containing reproductions of the Magna Charta,
Of the Declaration of Independence
And of a letter from Raleigh after the Armada.
There were also several packets of stamps,
Yellow and blue Guatemala parrots,
Blue stags and red baboons and birds from Sarawak,
Indians and Men-of-war
From the United States,
And the green and red portraits
Of King Francobollo
Of Italy.
V
I don't believe in God.
I do believe in avenging gods
Who plague us for sins we never sinned
But who avenge us.
That's why I'll never have a child,
Never shut up a chrysalis in a match-box
For the moth to spoil and crush its bright colours,
Beating its wings against the dingy prison-wall.
THE POPLAR
Why do you always stand there shivering
Between the white stream and the road?
The people pass through the dust
On bicycles, in carts, in motor-cars;
The waggoners go by at dawn;
The lovers walk on the grass path at night.
Stir from your roots, walk, poplar!
You are more beautiful than they are.
I know that the white wind loves you,
Is always kissing you and turning up
The white lining of your green petticoat.
The sky darts through you like blue rain,
And the grey rain drips on your flanks
And loves you.
And I have seen the moon
Slip his silver penny into your pocket
As you straightened your hair;
And the white mist curling and hesitating
Like a bashful lover about your knees.
I know you, poplar;
I have watched you since I was ten.
But if you had a little real love,
A little strength,
You would leave your nonchalant idle lovers
And go walking down the white road
Behind the waggoners.
There are beautiful beeches down beyond the hill.
Will you always stand there shivering?
ROUND-POND
Water ruffled and speckled by galloping wind
Which puffs and spurts it into tiny pashing breakers
Dashed with lemon-yellow afternoon sunlight.
The shining of the sun upon the water
Is like a scattering of gold crocus-petals
In a long wavering irregular flight.
The water is cold to the eye
As the wind to the cheek.
In the budding chestnuts
Whose sticky buds glimmer and are half-burst open
The starlings make their clitter-clatter;
And the blackbirds in the grass
Are getting as fat as the pigeons.
Too-hoo, this is brave;
Even the cold wind is seeking a new mistress.
DAISY
"_Plus quam se atque suos amavit omnes,
Nunc_. . . "
CATULLUS.
You were my playmate by the sea.
We swam together.
Your girl's body had no breasts.
We found prawns among the rocks;
We liked to feel the sun and to do nothing;
In the evening we played games with the others.
It made me glad to be by you.
Sometimes I kissed you,
And you were always glad to kiss me;
But I was afraid--I was only fourteen.
And I had quite forgotten you,
You and your name.
To-day I pass through the streets.
She who touches my arm and talks with me
Is--who knows? --Helen of Sparta,
Dryope, Laodamia. . . .
And there are you
A whore in Oxford Street.
EPIGRAMS
A GIRL
You were that clear Sicilian fluting
That pains our thought even now.
You were the notes
Of cold fantastic grief
Some few found beautiful.
NEW LOVE
She has new leaves
After her dead flowers,
Like the little almond-tree
Which the frost hurt.
OCTOBER
The beech-leaves are silver
For lack of the tree's blood.
At your kiss my lips
Become like the autumn beech-leaves.
THE FAUN SEES SNOW FOR THE FIRST TIME
Zeus,
Brazen-thunder-hurler,
Cloud-whirler, son-of-Kronos,
Send vengeance on these Oreads
Who strew
White frozen flecks of mist and cloud
Over the brown trees and the tufted grass
Of the meadows, where the stream
Runs black through shining banks
Of bluish white.
Zeus,
Are the halls of heaven broken up
That you flake down upon me
Feather-strips of marble?
Dis and Styx!
When I stamp my hoof
The frozen-cloud-specks jam into the cleft
So that I reel upon two slippery points. . . .
Fool, to stand here cursing
When I might be running!
LEMURES
In Nineveh
And beyond Nineveh
In the dusk
They were afraid.
In Thebes of Egypt
In the dusk
They chanted of them to the dead.
In my Lesbos and Achaia
Where the God dwelt
We knew them.
Now men say "They are not":
But in the dusk
Ere the white sun comes--
A gay child that bears a white candle--
I am afraid of their rustling,
Of their terrible silence,
The menace of their secrecy.
H. D.
H. D.
THE POOL
Are you alive?
I touch you.
You quiver like a sea-fish.
I cover you with my net.
What are you--banded one?
THE GARDEN
I
You are clear,
O rose, cut in rock,
hard as the descent of hail.
I could scrape the colour
from the petal,
like spilt dye from a rock.
If I could break you
I could break a tree.
If I could stir
I could break a tree,
I could break you.
II
O wind,
rend open the heat,
cut apart the heat,
rend it sideways.
Fruit can not drop
through this thick air:
fruit can not fall into heat
that presses up and blunts
the points of pears
and rounds the grapes.
Cut the heat,
plough through it,
turning it on either side
of your path.
SEA LILY
Reed,
slashed and torn,
but doubly rich--
such great heads as yours
drift upon temple-steps,
but you are shattered
in the wind.
Myrtle-bark
is flecked from you,
scales are dashed
from your stem,
sand cuts your petal,
furrows it with hard edge,
like flint
on a bright stone.
Yet though the whole wind
slash at your bark,
you are lifted up,
aye--though it hiss
to cover you with froth.
SEA IRIS
I
Weed, moss-weed,
root tangled in sand,
sea-iris, brittle flower,
one petal like a shell
is broken,
and you print a shadow
like a thin twig.
Fortunate one,
scented and stinging,
rigid myrrh-bud,
camphor-flower,
sweet and salt--you are wind
in our nostrils.
II
Do the murex-fishers
drench you as they pass?
Do your roots drag up colour
from the sand?
Have they slipped gold under you;
rivets of gold?
Band of iris-flowers
above the waves,
You are painted blue,
painted like a fresh prow
stained among the salt weeds.
SEA ROSE
Rose, harsh rose,
marred and with stint of petals,
meagre flower, thin,
sparse of leaf.
more precious
than a wet rose,
single on a stem--
you are caught in the drift.
Stunted, with small leaf,
you are flung on the sands,
you are lifted
in the crisp sand
that drives in the wind.
Can the spice-rose
drip such acrid fragrance
hardened in a leaf?
OREAD
Whirl up, sea--
Whirl your pointed pines,
Splash your great pines
On our rocks,
Hurl your green over us,
Cover us with your pools of fir.
ORION DEAD
[_Artemis speaks_]
The cornel-trees
uplift from the furrows,
the roots at their bases
strike lower through the barley-sprays.
So arise and face me.
I am poisoned with the rage of song.
_I once pierced the flesh
of the wild-deer,
now am I afraid to touch
the blue and the gold-veined hyacinths? _
_I will tear the full flowers
and the little heads
of the grape-hyacinths.
I will strip the life from the bulb
until the ivory layers
lie like narcissus petals
on the black earth. _
_Arise,
lest I bend an ash-tree
into a taut bow,
and slay--and tear
all the roots from the earth. _
The cornel-wood blazes
and strikes through the barley-sprays,
but I have lost heart for this.
I break a staff.
I break the tough branch.
I know no light in the woods.
I have lost pace with the winds.
JOHN GOULD FLETCHER
JOHN GOULD FLETCHER
THE BLUE SYMPHONY
I
The darkness rolls upward.
The thick darkness carries with it
Rain and a ravel of cloud.
The sun comes forth upon earth.
Palely the dawn
Leaves me facing timidly
Old gardens sunken:
And in the gardens is water.
Sombre wreck--autumnal leaves;
Shadowy roofs
In the blue mist,
And a willow-branch that is broken.
O old pagodas of my soul, how you glittered across green trees!
Blue and cool:
Blue, tremulously,
Blow faint puffs of smoke
Across sombre pools.
The damp green smell of rotted wood;
And a heron that cries from out the water.
As it has been suggested that much of the misunderstanding of the former
volume was due to the fact that we did not explain ourselves in a preface,
we have thought it wise to tell the public what our aims are, and why we
are banded together between one set of covers.
The poets in this volume do not represent a clique. Several of them are
personally unknown to the others, but they are united by certain common
principles, arrived at independently. These principles are not new; they
have fallen into desuetude. They are the essentials of all great poetry,
indeed of all great literature, and they are simply these:--
1. To use the language of common speech, but to employ always the _exact_
word, not the nearly-exact, nor the merely decorative word.
2. To create new rhythms--as the expression of new moods--and not to copy
old rhythms, which merely echo old moods. We do not insist upon
"free-verse" as the only method of writing poetry. We fight for it as for
a principle of liberty. We believe that the individuality of a poet may
often be better expressed in free-verse than in conventional forms. In
poetry, a new cadence means a new idea.
3. To allow absolute freedom in the choice of subject. It is not good art
to write badly about aeroplanes and automobiles; nor is it necessarily bad
art to write well about the past. We believe passionately in the artistic
value of modern life, but we wish to point out that there is nothing so
uninspiring nor so old-fashioned as an aeroplane of the year 1911.
4. To present an image (hence the name: "Imagist"). We are not a school of
painters, but we believe that poetry should render particulars exactly and
not deal in vague generalities, however magnificent and sonorous. It is
for this reason that we oppose the cosmic poet, who seems to us to shirk
the real difficulties of his art.
5. To produce poetry that is hard and clear, never blurred nor indefinite.
6. Finally, most of us believe that concentration is of the very essence
of poetry.
The subject of free-verse is too complicated to be discussed here. We may
say briefly, that we attach the term to all that increasing amount of
writing whose cadence is more marked, more definite, and closer knit than
that of prose, but which is not so violently nor so obviously accented as
the so-called "regular verse. " We refer those interested in the question
to the Greek Melic poets, and to the many excellent French studies on the
subject by such distinguished and well-equipped authors as Remy de
Gourmont, Gustave Kahn, Georges Duhamel, Charles Vildrac, Henri Ghéon,
Robert de Souza, André Spire, etc.
We wish it to be clearly understood that we do not represent an exclusive
artistic sect; we publish our work together because of mutual artistic
sympathy, and we propose to bring out our coöperative volume each year for
a short term of years, until we have made a place for ourselves and our
principles such as we desire.
CONTENTS
RICHARD ALDINGTON
Childhood 3
The Poplar 10
Round-Pond 12
Daisy 13
Epigrams 15
The Faun sees Snow for the First Time 16
Lemures 17
H. D.
The Pool 21
The Garden 22
Sea Lily 24
Sea Iris 25
Sea Rose 27
Oread 28
Orion Dead 29
JOHN GOULD FLETCHER
The Blue Symphony 33
London Excursion 39
F. S. FLINT
Trees 53
Lunch 55
Malady 56
Accident 58
Fragment 60
Houses 62
Eau-Forte 63
D. H. LAWRENCE
Ballad of Another Ophelia 67
Illicit 69
Fireflies in the Corn 70
A Woman and Her Dead Husband 72
The Mowers 75
Scent of Irises 76
Green 78
AMY LOWELL
Venus Transiens 81
The Travelling Bear 83
The Letter 85
Grotesque 86
Bullion 87
Solitaire 88
The Bombardment 89
BIBLIOGRAPHY 93
Thanks are due to the editors of _Poetry_, _The Smart Set_,
_Poetry and Drama_, and _The Egoist_ for their courteous
permission to reprint certain of these poems which have been
copyrighted to them.
RICHARD ALDINGTON
RICHARD ALDINGTON
CHILDHOOD
I
The bitterness, the misery, the wretchedness of childhood
Put me out of love with God.
I can't believe in God's goodness;
I can believe
In many avenging gods.
Most of all I believe
In gods of bitter dullness,
Cruel local gods
Who seared my childhood.
II
I've seen people put
A chrysalis in a match-box,
"To see," they told me, "what sort of moth would come. "
But when it broke its shell
It slipped and stumbled and fell about its prison
And tried to climb to the light
For space to dry its wings.
That's how I was.
Somebody found my chrysalis
And shut it in a match-box.
My shrivelled wings were beaten,
Shed their colours in dusty scales
Before the box was opened
For the moth to fly.
And then it was too late,
Because the beauty a child has,
And the beautiful things it learns before its birth,
Were shed, like moth-scales, from me.
III
I hate that town;
I hate the town I lived in when I was little;
I hate to think of it.
There were always clouds, smoke, rain
In that dingy little valley.
It rained; it always rained.
I think I never saw the sun until I was nine--
And then it was too late;
Everything's too late after the first seven years.
That long street we lived in
Was duller than a drain
And nearly as dingy.
There were the big College
And the pseudo-Gothic town-hall.
There were the sordid provincial shops--
The grocer's, and the shops for women,
The shop where I bought transfers,
And the piano and gramaphone shop
Where I used to stand
Staring at the huge shiny pianos and at the pictures
Of a white dog looking into a gramaphone.
How dull and greasy and grey and sordid it was!
On wet days--it was always wet--
I used to kneel on a chair
And look at it from the window.
The dirty yellow trams
Dragged noisily along
With a clatter of wheels and bells
And a humming of wires overhead.
They threw up the filthy rain-water from the hollow lines
And then the water ran back
Full of brownish foam bubbles.
There was nothing else to see--
It was all so dull--
Except a few grey legs under shiny black umbrellas
Running along the grey shiny pavements;
Sometimes there was a waggon
Whose horses made a strange loud hollow sound
With their hoofs
Through the silent rain.
And there was a grey museum
Full of dead birds and dead insects and dead animals
And a few relics of the Romans--dead also.
There was the sea-front,
A long asphalt walk with a bleak road beside it,
Three piers, a row of houses,
And a salt dirty smell from the little harbour.
I was like a moth---
Like one of those grey Emperor moths
Which flutter through the vines at Capri.
And that damned little town was my match-box,
Against whose sides I beat and beat
Until my wings were torn and faded, and dingy
As that damned little town.
IV
At school it was just dull as that dull High Street.
They taught me pothooks--
I wanted to be alone, although I was so little,
Alone, away from the rain, the dingyness, the dullness,
Away somewhere else--
The town was dull;
The front was dull;
The High Street and the other street were dull--
And there was a public park, I remember,
And that was damned dull too,
With its beds of geraniums no one was allowed to pick,
And its clipped lawns you weren't allowed to walk on,
And the gold-fish pond you mustn't paddle in,
And the gate made out of a whale's jaw-bones,
And the swings, which were for "Board-School children,"
And its gravel paths.
And on Sundays they rang the bells,
From Baptist and Evangelical and Catholic churches.
They had the Salvation Army.
I was taken to a High Church;
The parson's name was Mowbray,
"Which is a good name but he thinks too much of it--"
That's what I heard people say.
I took a little black book
To that cold, grey, damp, smelling church,
And I had to sit on a hard bench,
Wriggle off it to kneel down when they sang psalms,
And wriggle off it to kneel down when they prayed--
And then there was nothing to do
Except to play trains with the hymn-books.
There was nothing to see,
Nothing to do,
Nothing to play with,
Except that in an empty room upstairs
There was a large tin box
Containing reproductions of the Magna Charta,
Of the Declaration of Independence
And of a letter from Raleigh after the Armada.
There were also several packets of stamps,
Yellow and blue Guatemala parrots,
Blue stags and red baboons and birds from Sarawak,
Indians and Men-of-war
From the United States,
And the green and red portraits
Of King Francobollo
Of Italy.
V
I don't believe in God.
I do believe in avenging gods
Who plague us for sins we never sinned
But who avenge us.
That's why I'll never have a child,
Never shut up a chrysalis in a match-box
For the moth to spoil and crush its bright colours,
Beating its wings against the dingy prison-wall.
THE POPLAR
Why do you always stand there shivering
Between the white stream and the road?
The people pass through the dust
On bicycles, in carts, in motor-cars;
The waggoners go by at dawn;
The lovers walk on the grass path at night.
Stir from your roots, walk, poplar!
You are more beautiful than they are.
I know that the white wind loves you,
Is always kissing you and turning up
The white lining of your green petticoat.
The sky darts through you like blue rain,
And the grey rain drips on your flanks
And loves you.
And I have seen the moon
Slip his silver penny into your pocket
As you straightened your hair;
And the white mist curling and hesitating
Like a bashful lover about your knees.
I know you, poplar;
I have watched you since I was ten.
But if you had a little real love,
A little strength,
You would leave your nonchalant idle lovers
And go walking down the white road
Behind the waggoners.
There are beautiful beeches down beyond the hill.
Will you always stand there shivering?
ROUND-POND
Water ruffled and speckled by galloping wind
Which puffs and spurts it into tiny pashing breakers
Dashed with lemon-yellow afternoon sunlight.
The shining of the sun upon the water
Is like a scattering of gold crocus-petals
In a long wavering irregular flight.
The water is cold to the eye
As the wind to the cheek.
In the budding chestnuts
Whose sticky buds glimmer and are half-burst open
The starlings make their clitter-clatter;
And the blackbirds in the grass
Are getting as fat as the pigeons.
Too-hoo, this is brave;
Even the cold wind is seeking a new mistress.
DAISY
"_Plus quam se atque suos amavit omnes,
Nunc_. . . "
CATULLUS.
You were my playmate by the sea.
We swam together.
Your girl's body had no breasts.
We found prawns among the rocks;
We liked to feel the sun and to do nothing;
In the evening we played games with the others.
It made me glad to be by you.
Sometimes I kissed you,
And you were always glad to kiss me;
But I was afraid--I was only fourteen.
And I had quite forgotten you,
You and your name.
To-day I pass through the streets.
She who touches my arm and talks with me
Is--who knows? --Helen of Sparta,
Dryope, Laodamia. . . .
And there are you
A whore in Oxford Street.
EPIGRAMS
A GIRL
You were that clear Sicilian fluting
That pains our thought even now.
You were the notes
Of cold fantastic grief
Some few found beautiful.
NEW LOVE
She has new leaves
After her dead flowers,
Like the little almond-tree
Which the frost hurt.
OCTOBER
The beech-leaves are silver
For lack of the tree's blood.
At your kiss my lips
Become like the autumn beech-leaves.
THE FAUN SEES SNOW FOR THE FIRST TIME
Zeus,
Brazen-thunder-hurler,
Cloud-whirler, son-of-Kronos,
Send vengeance on these Oreads
Who strew
White frozen flecks of mist and cloud
Over the brown trees and the tufted grass
Of the meadows, where the stream
Runs black through shining banks
Of bluish white.
Zeus,
Are the halls of heaven broken up
That you flake down upon me
Feather-strips of marble?
Dis and Styx!
When I stamp my hoof
The frozen-cloud-specks jam into the cleft
So that I reel upon two slippery points. . . .
Fool, to stand here cursing
When I might be running!
LEMURES
In Nineveh
And beyond Nineveh
In the dusk
They were afraid.
In Thebes of Egypt
In the dusk
They chanted of them to the dead.
In my Lesbos and Achaia
Where the God dwelt
We knew them.
Now men say "They are not":
But in the dusk
Ere the white sun comes--
A gay child that bears a white candle--
I am afraid of their rustling,
Of their terrible silence,
The menace of their secrecy.
H. D.
H. D.
THE POOL
Are you alive?
I touch you.
You quiver like a sea-fish.
I cover you with my net.
What are you--banded one?
THE GARDEN
I
You are clear,
O rose, cut in rock,
hard as the descent of hail.
I could scrape the colour
from the petal,
like spilt dye from a rock.
If I could break you
I could break a tree.
If I could stir
I could break a tree,
I could break you.
II
O wind,
rend open the heat,
cut apart the heat,
rend it sideways.
Fruit can not drop
through this thick air:
fruit can not fall into heat
that presses up and blunts
the points of pears
and rounds the grapes.
Cut the heat,
plough through it,
turning it on either side
of your path.
SEA LILY
Reed,
slashed and torn,
but doubly rich--
such great heads as yours
drift upon temple-steps,
but you are shattered
in the wind.
Myrtle-bark
is flecked from you,
scales are dashed
from your stem,
sand cuts your petal,
furrows it with hard edge,
like flint
on a bright stone.
Yet though the whole wind
slash at your bark,
you are lifted up,
aye--though it hiss
to cover you with froth.
SEA IRIS
I
Weed, moss-weed,
root tangled in sand,
sea-iris, brittle flower,
one petal like a shell
is broken,
and you print a shadow
like a thin twig.
Fortunate one,
scented and stinging,
rigid myrrh-bud,
camphor-flower,
sweet and salt--you are wind
in our nostrils.
II
Do the murex-fishers
drench you as they pass?
Do your roots drag up colour
from the sand?
Have they slipped gold under you;
rivets of gold?
Band of iris-flowers
above the waves,
You are painted blue,
painted like a fresh prow
stained among the salt weeds.
SEA ROSE
Rose, harsh rose,
marred and with stint of petals,
meagre flower, thin,
sparse of leaf.
more precious
than a wet rose,
single on a stem--
you are caught in the drift.
Stunted, with small leaf,
you are flung on the sands,
you are lifted
in the crisp sand
that drives in the wind.
Can the spice-rose
drip such acrid fragrance
hardened in a leaf?
OREAD
Whirl up, sea--
Whirl your pointed pines,
Splash your great pines
On our rocks,
Hurl your green over us,
Cover us with your pools of fir.
ORION DEAD
[_Artemis speaks_]
The cornel-trees
uplift from the furrows,
the roots at their bases
strike lower through the barley-sprays.
So arise and face me.
I am poisoned with the rage of song.
_I once pierced the flesh
of the wild-deer,
now am I afraid to touch
the blue and the gold-veined hyacinths? _
_I will tear the full flowers
and the little heads
of the grape-hyacinths.
I will strip the life from the bulb
until the ivory layers
lie like narcissus petals
on the black earth. _
_Arise,
lest I bend an ash-tree
into a taut bow,
and slay--and tear
all the roots from the earth. _
The cornel-wood blazes
and strikes through the barley-sprays,
but I have lost heart for this.
I break a staff.
I break the tough branch.
I know no light in the woods.
I have lost pace with the winds.
JOHN GOULD FLETCHER
JOHN GOULD FLETCHER
THE BLUE SYMPHONY
I
The darkness rolls upward.
The thick darkness carries with it
Rain and a ravel of cloud.
The sun comes forth upon earth.
Palely the dawn
Leaves me facing timidly
Old gardens sunken:
And in the gardens is water.
Sombre wreck--autumnal leaves;
Shadowy roofs
In the blue mist,
And a willow-branch that is broken.
O old pagodas of my soul, how you glittered across green trees!
Blue and cool:
Blue, tremulously,
Blow faint puffs of smoke
Across sombre pools.
The damp green smell of rotted wood;
And a heron that cries from out the water.
II
Through the upland meadows
I go alone.
For I dreamed of someone last night
Who is waiting for me.
Flower and blossom, tell me do you know of her?
Have the rocks hidden her voice?
They are very blue and still.
Long upward road that is leading me,
Light hearted I quit you,
For the long loose ripples of the meadow-grass
Invite me to dance upon them.
Quivering grass
Daintily poised
For her foot's tripping.
O blown clouds, could I only race up like you,
Oh, the last slopes that are sun-drenched and steep!
Look, the sky!
Across black valleys
Rise blue-white aloft
Jagged, unwrinkled mountains, ranges of death.
Solitude. Silence.
III
One chuckles by the brook for me:
One rages under the stone.
One makes a spout of his mouth,
One whispers--one is gone.
One over there on the water
Spreads cold ripples
For me
Enticingly.
The vast dark trees
Flow like blue veils
Of tears
Into the water.
Sour sprites,
Moaning and chuckling,
What have you hidden from me?
"In the palace of the blue stone she lies forever
Bound hand and foot. "
Was it the wind
That rattled the reeds together?
Dry reeds,
A faint shiver in the grasses.
IV
On the left hand there is a temple:
And a palace on the right-hand side.
Foot-passengers in scarlet
Pass over the glittering tide.
Under the bridge
The old river flows
Low and monotonous
Day after day.
I have heard and have seen
All the news that has been:
Autumn's gold and Spring's green!
Now in my palace
I see foot-passengers
Crossing the river:
Pilgrims of Autumn
In the afternoons.
Lotus pools:
Petals in the water.
Such are my dreams.
For me silks are outspread.
I take my ease, unthinking.
