No More Learning

Ding! Creak! The farrier's lad
Jerks the bellows till he cracks their bones,
And the stifled air hiccoughs and groans.
The Sergeant is lying on the floor
Stone dead, and his hat with the tricolore
Cockade has rolled off into the cinders. Victorine snorts and lays back
her ears.
What glistens on the anvil? Sweat or tears?


V

St. Helena, May, 1821

Tap! Tap! Tap!
Through the white tropic night.
Tap! Tap!
Beat the hammers,
Unwearied, indefatigable.
They are hanging dull black cloth about the dead.
Lustreless black cloth
Which chokes the radiance of the moonlight
And puts out the little moving shadows of leaves.
Tap! Tap!
The knocking makes the candles quaver,
And the long black hangings waver
Tap! Tap! Tap!
Tap! Tap!
In the ears which do not heed.
Tap! Tap!
Above the eyelids which do not flicker.
Tap! Tap!
Over the hands which do not stir.
Chiselled like a cameo of white agate against the hangings,
Struck to brilliance by the falling moonlight,
A face!
Sharp as a frozen flame,
Beautiful as an altar lamp of silver,
And still. Perfectly still.
In the next room, the men chatter
As they eat their midnight lunches.
A knife hits against a platter.
But the figure on the bed
Between the stifling black hangings
Is cold and motionless,
Played over by the moonlight from the windows
And the indistinct shadows of leaves.

Tap! Tap!
Upholsterer Darling has a fine shop in Jamestown.
Tap! Tap!
Andrew Darling has ridden hard from Longwood to see to the work in his shop
in Jamestown.
He has a corps of men in it, toiling and swearing,
Knocking, and measuring, and planing, and squaring,
Working from a chart with figures,
Comparing with their rules,
Setting this and that part together with their tools.
Tap! Tap! Tap!
Haste indeed!
So great is the need
That carpenters have been taken from the new church,
Joiners have been called from shaping pews and lecterns
To work of greater urgency.
Coffins!
Coffins is what they are making this bright Summer morning.
Coffins--and all to measurement.
There is a tin coffin,
A deal coffin,
A lead coffin,
And Captain Bennett's best mahogany dining-table
Has been sawed up for the grand outer coffin.
Tap! Tap! Tap!
Sunshine outside in the square,
But inside, only hollow coffins and the tapping upon them.
The men whistle,
And the coffins grow under their hammers
In the darkness of the shop.
Tap! Tap! Tap!

Tramp of men.
Steady tramp of men.
Slit-eyed Chinese with long pigtails
Bearing oblong things upon their shoulders
March slowly along the road to Longwood.
Their feet fall softly in the dust of the road;
Sometimes they call gutturally to each other and stop to shift shoulders.
Four coffins for the little dead man,
Four fine coffins,
And one of them Captain Bennett's dining-table!
And sixteen splendid Chinamen, all strong and able
And of assured neutrality.
Ah! George of England, Lord Bathhurst & Co.
Your princely munificence makes one's heart glow.
Huzza! Huzza! For the Lion of England!

Tap! Tap! Tap!
Marble likeness of an Emperor,
Dead man, who burst your heart against a world too narrow,
The hammers drum you to your last throne
Which always you shall hold alone.
Tap! Tap!
The glory of your past is faded as a sunset fire,
Your day lingers only like the tones of a wind-lyre
In a twilit room.
Here is the emptiness of your dream
Scattered about you.
Coins of yesterday,
Double napoleons stamped with Consul or Emperor,
Strange as those of Herculaneum--
And you just dead!
Not one spool of thread
Will these buy in any market-place.
Lay them over him,
They are the baubles of a crown of mist
Worn in a vision and melted away at waking.
Tap! Tap!
His heart strained at kingdoms
And now it is content with a silver dish.
Strange World! Strange Wayfarer!
Strange Destiny!
Lower it gently beside him and let it lie.
Tap! Tap! Tap!




Two Travellers in the Place Vendome

Reign of Louis Philippe



A great tall column spearing at the sky
With a little man on top. Goodness! Tell me why?
He looks a silly thing enough to stand up there so high.

What a strange fellow, like a soldier in a play,
Tight-fitting coat with the tails cut away,
High-crowned hat which the brims overlay.

Two-horned hat makes an outline like a bow.
Must have a sword, I can see the light glow
Between a dark line and his leg. Vertigo

I get gazing up at him, a pygmy flashed with sun.
A weathercock or scarecrow or both things in one?
As bright as a jewelled crown hung above a throne.

Say, what is the use of him if he doesn't turn?
Just put up to glitter there, like a torch to burn,
A sort of sacrificial show in a lofty urn?

But why a little soldier in an obsolete dress?
I'd rather see a Goddess with a spear, I confess.
Something allegorical and fine. Why, yes--

I cannot take my eyes from him. I don't know why at all.
I've looked so long the whole thing swims. I feel he ought to fall.
Foreshortened there among the clouds he's pitifully small.

What do you say? There used to be an Emperor standing there,
With flowing robes and laurel crown. Really? Yet I declare
Those spiral battles round the shaft don't seem just his affair.

A togaed, laurelled man's I mean. Now this chap seems to feel
As though he owned those soldiers. Whew! How he makes one reel,
Swinging round above his circling armies in a wheel.

Sweeping round the sky in an orbit like the sun's,
Flashing sparks like cannon-balls from his own long guns.
Perhaps my sight is tired, but that figure simply stuns.

How low the houses seem, and all the people are mere flies.
That fellow pokes his hat up till it scratches on the skies.
Impudent! Audacious! But, by Jove, he blinds the eyes!





WAR PICTURES




The Allies

August 14th, 1914



Into the brazen, burnished sky, the cry hurls itself. The zigzagging
cry of hoarse throats, it floats against the hard winds, and binds the
head of the serpent to its tail, the long snail-slow serpent of marching
men. Men weighed down with rifles and knapsacks, and parching with war.
The cry jars and splits against the brazen, burnished sky.

This is the war of wars, and the cause? Has this writhing worm of men a
cause?

Crackling against the polished sky is an eagle with a sword. The eagle
is red and its head is flame.


In the shoulder of the worm is a teacher.

His tongue laps the war-sucked air in drought, but he yells defiance at
the red-eyed eagle, and in his ears are the bells of new philosophies,
and their tinkling drowns the sputter of the burning sword. He shrieks,
"God damn you! When you are broken, the word will strike out new
shoots. "

His boots are tight, the sun is hot, and he may be shot, but he is in
the shoulder of the worm.


A dust speck in the worm's belly is a poet.

He laughs at the flaring eagle and makes a long nose with his fingers.
He will fight for smooth, white sheets of paper, and uncurdled ink. The
sputtering sword cannot make him blink, and his thoughts are wet and
rippling. They cool his heart.

He will tear the eagle out of the sky and give the earth tranquillity,
and loveliness printed on white paper.


The eye of the serpent is an owner of mills.

He looks at the glaring sword which has snapped his machinery and struck
away his men.

But it will all come again, when the sword is broken to a million dying
stars, and there are no more wars.


Bankers, butchers, shop-keepers, painters, farmers--men, sway and
sweat. They will fight for the earth, for the increase of the slow, sure
roots of peace, for the release of hidden forces. They jibe at the
eagle and his scorching sword.

One! Two! --One! Two! --clump the heavy boots. The cry hurtles
against the sky.

Each man pulls his belt a little tighter, and shifts his gun to make it
lighter. Each man thinks of a woman, and slaps out a curse at the
eagle. The sword jumps in the hot sky, and the worm crawls on to the
battle, stubbornly.

This is the war of wars, from eye to tail the serpent has one cause:
PEACE!




The Bombardment



Slowly, without force, the rain drops into the city. It stops a moment
on the carved head of Saint John, then slides on again, slipping and
trickling over his stone cloak. It splashes from the lead conduit of a
gargoyle, and falls from it in turmoil on the stones in the Cathedral
square. Where are the people, and why does the fretted steeple sweep
about in the sky? Boom! The sound swings against the rain. Boom,
again! After it, only water rushing in the gutters, and the turmoil
from the spout of the gargoyle. Silence. Ripples and mutters. Boom!


The room is damp, but warm. Little flashes swarm about from the
firelight. The lustres of the chandelier are bright, and clusters of
rubies leap in the bohemian glasses on the 'etagere'. Her hands are
restless, but the white masses of her hair are quite still. Boom! Will
it never cease to torture, this iteration! Boom! The vibration
shatters a glass on the 'etagere'. It lies there, formless and glowing,
with all its crimson gleams shot out of pattern, spilled, flowing red,
blood-red. A thin bell-note pricks through the silence. A door creaks.
The old lady speaks: "Victor, clear away that broken glass. " "Alas!
Madame, the bohemian glass! " "Yes, Victor, one hundred years ago my
father brought it--" Boom! The room shakes, the servitor quakes.
Another goblet shivers and breaks. Boom!


It rustles at the window-pane, the smooth, streaming rain, and he is
shut within its clash and murmur. Inside is his candle, his table, his
ink, his pen, and his dreams. He is thinking, and the walls are pierced
with beams of sunshine, slipping through young green. A fountain tosses
itself up at the blue sky, and through the spattered water in the basin
he can see copper carp, lazily floating among cold leaves. A wind-harp
in a cedar-tree grieves and whispers, and words blow into his brain,
bubbled, iridescent, shooting up like flowers of fire, higher and
higher. Boom! The flame-flowers snap on their slender stems.
The
fountain rears up in long broken spears of dishevelled water and
flattens into the earth. Boom! And there is only the room, the table,
the candle, and the sliding rain. Again, Boom! --Boom! --Boom! He
stuffs his fingers into his ears. He sees corpses, and cries out in
fright. Boom! It is night, and they are shelling the city! Boom!
Boom!


A child wakes and is afraid, and weeps in the darkness. What has made
the bed shake? "Mother, where are you? I am awake. " "Hush, my
Darling, I am here. " "But, Mother, something so queer happened, the
room shook. " Boom! "Oh! What is it? What is the matter? " Boom!
"Where is Father? I am so afraid. " Boom! The child sobs and shrieks.
The house trembles and creaks. Boom!


Retorts, globes, tubes, and phials lie shattered. All his trials oozing
across the floor. The life that was his choosing, lonely, urgent,
goaded by a hope, all gone. A weary man in a ruined laboratory, that is
his story. Boom! Gloom and ignorance, and the jig of drunken brutes.
Diseases like snakes crawling over the earth, leaving trails of slime.
Wails from people burying their dead. Through the window, he can see
the rocking steeple. A ball of fire falls on the lead of the roof, and
the sky tears apart on a spike of flame. Up the spire, behind the
lacings of stone, zigzagging in and out of the carved tracings, squirms
the fire. It spouts like yellow wheat from the gargoyles, coils round
the head of Saint John, and aureoles him in light. It leaps into the
night and hisses against the rain. The Cathedral is a burning stain on
the white, wet night.


Boom! The Cathedral is a torch, and the houses next to it begin to
scorch. Boom! The bohemian glass on the 'etagere' is no longer there.
Boom! A stalk of flame sways against the red damask curtains. The old
lady cannot walk. She watches the creeping stalk and counts.
Boom! --Boom! --Boom!


The poet rushes into the street, and the rain wraps him in a sheet of
silver. But it is threaded with gold and powdered with scarlet beads.
The city burns. Quivering, spearing, thrusting, lapping, streaming, run
the flames. Over roofs, and walls, and shops, and stalls. Smearing its
gold on the sky, the fire dances, lances itself through the doors, and
lisps and chuckles along the floors.


The child wakes again and screams at the yellow petalled flower
flickering at the window. The little red lips of flame creep along the
ceiling beams.


The old man sits among his broken experiments and looks at the burning
Cathedral. Now the streets are swarming with people. They seek shelter
and crowd into the cellars. They shout and call, and over all, slowly
and without force, the rain drops into the city. Boom! And the steeple
crashes down among the people. Boom! Boom, again! The water rushes
along the gutters. The fire roars and mutters. Boom!




Lead Soldiers



The nursery fire burns brightly, crackling in cheerful little explosions
and trails of sparks up the back of the chimney. Miniature rockets
peppering the black bricks with golden stars, as though a gala flamed a
night of victorious wars.

The nodding mandarin on the bookcase moves his head forward and back,
slowly, and looks into the air with his blue-green eyes. He stares into
the air and nods--forward and back. The red rose in his hand is a
crimson splash on his yellow coat. Forward and back, and his blue-green
eyes stare into the air, and he nods--nods.


Tommy's soldiers march to battle,
Trumpets flare and snare-drums rattle.
Bayonets flash, and sabres glance--
How the horses snort and prance!
Cannon drawn up in a line
Glitter in the dizzy shine
Of the morning sunlight. Flags
Ripple colours in great jags.
Red blows out, then blue, then green,
Then all three--a weaving sheen
Of prismed patriotism. March
Tommy's soldiers, stiff and starch,
Boldly stepping to the rattle
Of the drums, they go to battle.


Tommy lies on his stomach on the floor and directs his columns. He puts
his infantry in front, and before them ambles a mounted band. Their
instruments make a strand of gold before the scarlet-tunicked soldiers,
and they take very long steps on their little green platforms, and from
the ranks bursts the song of Tommy's soldiers marching to battle. The
song jolts a little as the green platforms stick on the thick carpet.
Tommy wheels his guns round the edge of a box of blocks, and places a
squad of cavalry on the commanding eminence of a footstool.


The fire snaps pleasantly, and the old Chinaman nods--nods. The fire
makes the red rose in his hand glow and twist. Hist! That is a bold
song Tommy's soldiers sing as they march along to battle.

Crack! Rattle! The sparks fly up the chimney.


Tommy's army's off to war--
Not a soldier knows what for.
But he knows about his rifle,
How to shoot it, and a trifle
Of the proper thing to do
When it's he who is shot through.
Like a cleverly trained flea,
He can follow instantly
Orders, and some quick commands
Really make severe demands
On a mind that's none too rapid,
Leaden brains tend to the vapid.
But how beautifully dressed
Is this army! How impressed
Tommy is when at his heel
All his baggage wagons wheel
About the patterned carpet, and
Moving up his heavy guns
He sees them glow with diamond suns
Flashing all along each barrel.
And the gold and blue apparel
Of his gunners is a joy.
Tommy is a lucky boy.
Boom! Boom! Ta-ra!

The old mandarin nods under his purple umbrella. The rose in his hand
shoots its petals up in thin quills of crimson. Then they collapse and
shrivel like red embers. The fire sizzles.


Tommy is galloping his cavalry, two by two, over the floor. They must
pass the open terror of the door and gain the enemy encamped under the
wash-stand. The mounted band is very grand, playing allegro and leading
the infantry on at the double quick. The tassel of the hearth-rug has
flung down the bass-drum, and he and his dapple-grey horse lie
overtripped, slipped out of line, with the little lead drumsticks
glistening to the fire's shine.

The fire burns and crackles, and tickles the tripped bass-drum with its
sparkles.

The marching army hitches its little green platforms valiantly, and
steadily approaches the door. The overturned bass-drummer, lying on the
hearth-rug, melting in the heat, softens and sheds tears. The song
jeers at his impotence, and flaunts the glory of the martial and still
upstanding, vaunting the deeds it will do. For are not Tommy's soldiers
all bright and new?


Tommy's leaden soldiers we,
Glittering with efficiency.
Not a button's out of place,
Tons and tons of golden lace
Wind about our officers.
Every manly bosom stirs
At the thought of killing--killing!
Tommy's dearest wish fulfilling.
We are gaudy, savage, strong,
And our loins so ripe we long
First to kill, then procreate,
Doubling so the laws of Fate.
On their women we have sworn
To graft our sons. And overborne
They'll rear us younger soldiers, so
Shall our race endure and grow,
Waxing greater in the wombs
Borrowed of them, while damp tombs
Rot their men. O Glorious War!
Goad us with your points, Great Star!



The china mandarin on the bookcase nods slowly, forward and
back--forward and back--and the red rose writhes and wriggles,
thrusting its flaming petals under and over one another like tortured
snakes.

The fire strokes them with its dartles, and purrs at them, and the old
man nods.


Tommy does not hear the song. He only sees the beautiful, new,
gaily-coloured lead soldiers. They belong to him, and he is very proud
and happy. He shouts his orders aloud, and gallops his cavalry past the
door to the wash-stand. He creeps over the floor on his hands and knees
to one battalion and another, but he sees only the bright colours of his
soldiers and the beautiful precision of their gestures. He is a lucky
boy to have such fine lead soldiers to enjoy.


Tommy catches his toe in the leg of the wash-stand, and jars the
pitcher. He snatches at it with his hands, but it is too late. The
pitcher falls, and as it goes, he sees the white water flow over its
lip. It slips between his fingers and crashes to the floor. But it is
not water which oozes to the door. The stain is glutinous and dark, a
spark from the firelight heads it to red. In and out, between the fine,
new soldiers, licking over the carpet, squirms the stream of blood,
lapping at the little green platforms, and flapping itself against the
painted uniforms.


The nodding mandarin moves his head slowly, forward and back. The rose
is broken, and where it fell is black blood. The old mandarin leers
under his purple umbrella, and nods--forward and back, staring into
the air with blue-green eyes. Every time his head comes forward a
rosebud pushes between his lips, rushes into full bloom, and drips to
the ground with a splashing sound. The pool of black blood grows and
grows, with each dropped rose, and spreads out to join the stream from
the wash-stand. The beautiful army of lead soldiers steps boldly
forward, but the little green platforms are covered in the rising stream
of blood.


The nursery fire burns brightly and flings fan-bursts of stars up the
chimney, as though a gala flamed a night of victorious wars.




The Painter on Silk



There was a man
Who made his living
By painting roses
Upon silk.

He sat in an upper chamber
And painted,
And the noises of the street
Meant nothing to him.

When he heard bugles, and fifes, and drums,
He thought of red, and yellow, and white roses
Bursting in the sunshine,
And smiled as he worked.

He thought only of roses,
And silk.
When he could get no more silk
He stopped painting
And only thought
Of roses.

The day the conquerors
Entered the city,
The old man
Lay dying.
He heard the bugles and drums,
And wished he could paint the roses
Bursting into sound.




A Ballad of Footmen



Now what in the name of the sun and the stars
Is the meaning of this most unholy of wars?

Do men find life so full of humour and joy
That for want of excitement they smash up the toy?

Fifteen millions of soldiers with popguns and horses
All bent upon killing, because their "of courses"

Are not quite the same. All these men by the ears,
And nine nations of women choking with tears.

It is folly to think that the will of a king
Can force men to make ducks and drakes of a thing

They value, and life is, at least one supposes,
Of some little interest, even if roses

Have not grown up between one foot and the other.
What a marvel bureaucracy is, which can smother

Such quite elementary feelings, and tag
A man with a number, and set him to wag

His legs and his arms at the word of command
Or the blow of a whistle! He's certainly damned,

Fit only for mince-meat, if a little gold lace
And an upturned moustache can set him to face

Bullets, and bayonets, and death, and diseases,
Because some one he calls his Emperor, pleases.

If each man were to lay down his weapon, and say,
With a click of his heels, "I wish you Good-day,"

Now what, may I ask, could the Emperor do?
A king and his minions are really so few.

Angry? Oh, of course, a most furious Emperor!
But the men are so many they need not mind his temper, or

The dire results which could not be inflicted.
With no one to execute sentence, convicted

Is just the weak wind from an old, broken bellows.
What lackeys men are, who might be such fine fellows!

To be killing each other, unmercifully,
At an order, as though one said, "Bring up the tea. "

Or is it that tasting the blood on their jaws
They lap at it, drunk with its ferment, and laws

So patiently builded, are nothing to drinking
More blood, any blood. They don't notice its stinking.

I don't suppose tigers do, fighting cocks, sparrows,
And, as to men--what are men, when their marrows

Are running with blood they have gulped; it is plain
Such excellent sport does not recollect pain.

Toll the bells in the steeples left standing. Half-mast
The flags which meant order, for order is past.

Take the dust of the streets and sprinkle your head,
The civilization we've worked for is dead.

Squeeze into this archway, the head of the line
Has just swung round the corner to 'Die Wacht am Rhein'.





THE OVERGROWN PASTURE




Reaping



You want to know what's the matter with me, do yer?
My! ain't men blinder'n moles?
It ain't nothin' new, be sure o' that.
Why, ef you'd had eyes you'd ha' seed
Me changin' under your very nose,
Each day a little diff'rent.
But you never see nothin', you don't.
Don't touch me, Jake,
Don't you dars't to touch me,
I ain't in no humour.
That's what's come over me;
Jest a change clear through.
You lay still, an' I'll tell yer,
I've had it on my mind to tell yer
Fer some time.
It's a strain livin' a lie from mornin' till night,
An' I'm goin' to put an end to it right now.
An' don't make any mistake about one thing,
When I married yer I loved yer.
Why, your voice 'ud make
Me go hot and cold all over,
An' your kisses most stopped my heart from beatin'.
Lord! I was a silly fool.
But that's the way 'twas.
Well, I married yer
An' thought Heav'n was comin'
To set on the door-step.
Heav'n didn't do no settin',
Though the first year warn't so bad.
The baby's fever threw you off some, I guess,
An' then I took her death real hard,
An' a mopey wife kind o' disgusts a man.
I ain't blamin' yer exactly.
But that's how 'twas.
Do lay quiet,
I know I'm slow, but it's harder to say 'n I thought.