DES

IMAGISTES

V O L U M E N U M B E R

I 5

FEBRUARY 1914

SUBSCRIPTION Three Dollars Yearly

THIS ISSUE 50 CENTS

AN

ANTHOLOGY

The only editorial policy of T H E G L E B E is that embodied in its declaration of absolute freedom of expression, which makes for a range broad enough to include every temperament from the most radical to the most conservative, the only requisite being that the work should have unmis takable merit. Each issue will be devoted exclus ively to one individual, thereby giving him an op portunity to present his work in sufficient bulk to make it possible for the reader to obtain a much more comprehensive grasp of his personality than is afforded him in the restricted space allotted by the other magazines. Published monthly, or more fre quently if possible, T H E G L E B E will issue twelve to twenty books per year, chosen on their merits alone, since the subscription list does away with the need of catering to the popular demand that con fronts every publisher. Thus, T H E G L E B E can promise the best work of American and foreign authors, known and unknown. The price of each issue of T H E G L E B E will vary with the cost of publication, but the yearly subscrip tion, including special numbers, is three dollars.

Editor A L F R E D KREYMBORG

D E S

I M A G I S T E S

 , , } .)) " A n d she also w a s of S i k i l i a a n d w a s g a y i n the valleys of Aetna, and knew the D o r i c singing."

DES
AN

IMAGISTES
ANTHOLOGY

NEW YORK ALBERT AND CHARLES BONI

96 F I F T H A V E N U E

1914

Copyright,

1914

By Albert and Charlee Boni

CONTENTS

RICHARD ALDINGTON Choricos - -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -7 T o a Greek M a r b l e A u Vieux Jardin - - - Lesbia - - - - - - - - Beauty T h o u Hast Hurt Argyria I n the V i a S e s t i n a - - 10 - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -12 M e Overmuch 13 14 - - - - - - - - - - - 15 16 17 19

The River Bromios - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - To H. D. Sitalkas - - - - - - H e r m e s of the W a y s H e r m e s of the W a y s Priapus - - - - - - Aeon Hermonax - - - - Epigram F . S. F L I N T I Atthis

- - - - - - - -20 - - - - - - - - 21 -- -- -- --22 - -24 26 - - - - - - - - - - - - -28 30

-I II --

. .

II Hallucination - - - - - - - - - - - - HI IV V The Swan

--32 33 34 35

SKIPWITH CANNELL Nocturnes A M Y LOWELL In a Garden W I L L I A M CARLOS W I L L I A M S Postlude J A M E S JOYCE I H e a r an A r m y EZRA POUND - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - 4 1 42 43 44 45 46 47 51 --54 The Return After C h ' u Y u a n L i u Ch'e F a n - P i e c e for H e r I m p e r i a l L o r d - - - - - Ts'ai Chi'h FORD M A D O X H U E F F E R I n the L i t t l e O l d M a r k e t - P l a c e ALLEN UPWARD Scented L e a v e s f r o m a Chinese J a r J O H N COURNOS after K . T E T M A I E R The Rose - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - DOCUMENTS TO H u l m e (T. E.) and Fitzgerald V a t e s , the Social R e f o r m e r -57 59 40 39 38 36

F r a g m e n t s A d d r e s s e d b y C l e a r c h u s H . to A l d i - 62 Bibliography - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - 6 3

CHORICOS T h e ancient songs Pass deathward m o u r n f u l l y . C o l d lips that sing no more, and withered wreaths, R e g r e t f u l eyes, and d r o o p i n g breasts and w i n g s Symbols o f ancient songs M o u r n f u l l y passing D o w n to the great white surges, W a t c h e d of none Save the f r a i l sea-birds A n d the lithe pale girls, Daughters of O k e a n u s . A n d the songs pass F r o m the green l a n d W h i c h lies upon the waves as a leaf O n the flowers of hyacinth ; A n d they pass f r o m the waters, T h e m a n i f o l d w i n d s a n d the d i m m o o n , A n d they come, Silently w i n g i n g through soft K i m m e r i a n dusk, T o the quiet level lands T h a t she keeps for us a l l , T h a t she w r o u g h t f o r us a l l f o r sleep I n the silver days of the earth's d a w n i n g P r o s e r p i n a , daughter o f Zeus. A n d we t u r n f r o m the K u p r i a n ' s breasts,

A n d we t u r n f r o m thee, Phoibos Apollon, A n d we t u r n f r o m the m u s i c of o l d A n d the hills that w e l o v e d and the meads, A n d we t u r n f r o m the fiery day, A n d the lips that were over sweet; F o r silently B r u s h i n g the fields w i t h red-shod feet, W i t h purple robe S e a r i n g the flowers as w i t h a sudden flame, Death, T h o u hast come u p o n us. A n d o f a l l the ancient songs P a s s i n g to the s w a l l o w - b l u e halls B y the dark streams of Persephone, T h i s o n l y remains : T h a t we t u r n to thee, Death, T h a t we t u r n to thee, singing O n e last song. O Death, T h o u art an healing w i n d T h a t blowest over w h i t e flowers -tremble w i t h d e w ; T h o u art a w i n d flowing O v e r d a r k leagues of lonely sea; T h o u art the dusk and the fragrance; T h o u art the lips of love m o u r n f u l l y s m i l i n g ;

T h o u art the pale peace of one Satiate w i t h o l d desires; T h o u art the silence of beauty, A n d we look no more for the m o r n i n g W e y e a r n no more for the sun, Since w i t h thy white hands, Death, T h o u crownest us w i t h the p a l l i d chaplets, T h e s l i m colourless poppies W h i c h i n t h y garden alone S o f t l y thou gatherest. A n d silently, A n d w i t h slow feet approaching, A n d w i t h b o w e d head and unlit eyes, W e kneel before thee: A n d thou, leaning towards us, C a r e s s i n g l y layest u p o n us F l o w e r s f r o m thy t h i n cold hands, A n d , s m i l i n g as a chaste w o m a n K n o w i n g love i n her heart, T h o u sealest o u r eyes A n d the illimitable quietude Comes gently u p o n us. RICHARD ALDINGTON

TO

A GREEK

MARBLE

IITVca,

W h i t e grave goddess, P i t y m y sadness, O silence o f P a r o s . I am not o f these about t h y feet, T h e s e garments and d e c o r u m ; I am t h y brother, T h y l o v e r o f aforetime c r y i n g to thee, A n d thou hearest me not. I have w h i s p e r e d thee i n thy solitudes O f o u r loves i n P h r y g i a , T h e far ecstasy o f b u r n i n g noons W h e n the fragile pipes Ceased i n the cypress shade, A n d the b r o w n fingers o f the shepherd M o v e d over s l i m s h o u l d e r s ; A n d only the cicada sang. I have t o l d thee o f the hills A n d the lisp o f reeds A n d the sun upon thy breasts, And thou hearest me not,

, ,

T h o u hearest me not. R I C H A R D ALDINGTON

10

AU

VIEUX

JARDIN

I have sat here happy i n the gardens, W a t c h i n g the still pool and the reeds A n d the dark clouds W h i c h the w i n d o f the upper a i r T o r e like the green leafy boughs O f the divers-hued trees of late s u m m e r ; B u t though I greatly delight I n these and the water lilies, T h a t w h i c h sets me nighest to weeping Is the rose and white colour o f the smooth flag-stones, A n d the pale yellow grasses A m o n g them. RICHARD ALDINGTON

11

LESBIA U s e no more speech n o w ; L e t the silence spread g o l d h a i r above us F o l d on delicate f o l d ; Y o u h a d the i v o r y o f m y life to carve. U s e no more speech.

A n d P i c u s o f M i r a n d o l a is d e a d ; A n d a l l the gods they dreamed a n d fabled of, H e r m e s , a n d T h o t h , a n d C h r i s t , are rotten n o w , R o t t e n a n d dank.

A n d t h r o u g h it a l l I see y o u r pale G r e e k f a c e ; Tenderness makes me as eager as a little c h i l d T o love y o u Y o u m o r s e l left half cold o n Caesar's plate. RICHARD ALDINGTON

12

BEAUTY THOU HAST HURT M E OVERMUCH T h e light is a w o u n d to me. T h e soft notes F e e d u p o n the w o u n d . W h e r e w e r t thou b o r n O thou woe T h a t consumest m y l i f e ? W h i t h e r comest thou? T o o t h e d w i n d of the seas, N o m a n k n o w s thy beginning. A s a b i r d w i t h strong claws T h o u woundest me, O beautiful s o r r o w . RICHARD ALDINGTON

13

ARGYRIA O you, O y o u most fair, S w a y e r o f reeds, w h i s p e r e r A m o n g the flowering rushes, Y o u have hidden y o u r hands Beneath the poplar leaves, Y o u have g i v e n them to the w h i t e waters. Swallow-fleet, Sea-child cold f r o m waves, S l i g h t reed that sang so blithely i n the w i n d , W h i t e c l o u d the w h i t e sun kissed into the a i r ; P a n m o u r n s for y o u . W h i t e limbs, white song, Pan mourns for you. R I C H A R D ALDINGTON

14

IN T H E V I A SESTINA O daughter of Isis, T h o u standest beside the wet h i g h w a y O f this decayed R o m e , A manifest harlot. Straight and slim art thou A s a marble p h a l l u s ; T h y face is the face of Isis Carven A s she is carven i n basalt. A n d m y heart stops w i t h awe A t the presence of the gods, T h e r e beside thee on the stall of images Is the head o f O s i r i s Thy lord. RICHARD ALDINGTON

IS

THE

RIVER I

I d r i f t e d a l o n g the r i v e r U n t i l I m o o r e d m y boat B y these crossed trunks. H e r e the mist moves O v e r fragile leaves a n d rushes, Colourless waters and b r o w n f a d i n g hills. She has come f r o m beneath the trees, M o v i n g w i t h i n the mist, A floating leaf. II O blue flower of the evening, Y o u have touched m y face W i t h y o u r leaves of silver. L o v e me f o r I must depart. R I C H A R D ALDINGTON

16

BROMIOS T h e w i t h e r e d bonds are broken. T h e w a x e d reeds and the double pipe C l a m o u r about m e ; T h e hot w i n d swirls T h r o u g h the red pine trunks. I o ! the fauns and the satyrs. T h e touch of their shagged curled fur A n d blunt h o r n s ! T h e y have wine i n heavy craters P a i n t e d black and r e d ; W i n e to splash on her white body. Io! She shrinks f r o m the cold shower Afraid, afraid! Let And Let Ah, the M a e n a d s break through the myrtles the boughs of the rohododaphnai. them tear the quick deers' flesh. the cruel, exquisite fingers!

Io! I have brought y o u the b r o w n clusters, T h e ivy-boughs and pine-cones. Y o u r breasts are cold sea-ripples, B u t they smell of the w a r m grasses.

17

T h r o w w i d e the chiton a n d the p e p l u m , M a i d e n s o f the D e w . B e a u t i f u l are y o u r bodies, O M a e n a d s , B e a u t i f u l the sudden folds, T h e v a n i s h i n g curves o f the white linen About you. Io! H e a r the r i c h laughter of the forest, T h e cymbals, T h e t r a m p l i n g o f the panisks a n d the centaurs. RICHARD ALDINGTON.

18

TO

ATTHIS the Manuscript of Sappho now in Berlin)

(After

A t t h i s , far f r o m me and dear M n a s i d i k a , Dwells in Sardis; M a n y times she was near us So that we lived life well L i k e the far-famed goddess W h o m above a l l things music delighted. A n d n o w she is first among the L y d i a n w o m e n A s the m i g h t y sun, the rose-fingered m o o n , Beside the great stars. And And And Rose And the light fades f r o m the bitter sea i n like manner f r o m the rich-blossoming e a r t h ; the dew is shed upon the flowers, and soft meadow-sweet many-coloured melilote.

M a n y things told are remembered o f sterile A t t h i s . I yearn to behold thy delicate soul T o satiate m y desire. . . . RICHARD ALDINGTON

19

SITALKAS T h o u art come at length M o r e beautiful T h a n any cool god In a chamber under L y c i a ' s far coast, T h a n any h i g h g o d W h o touches us not H e r e i n the seeded grass. A y e , than Argestes Scattering the b r o k e n leaves. H . D.

20

HERMES OF THE WAYS I T h e h a r d sand breaks, A n d the grains of it A r e clear as wine. F a r off over the leagues of it, The wind, P l a y i n g on the w i d e shore, P i l e s little ridges, A n d the great waves B r e a k over it. B u t more than the many-foamed ways O f the sea, I know him O f the triple path-ways, Hermes, W h o awaiteth. Dubious, F a c i n g three ways, W e l c o m i n g wayfarers, H e w h o m the sea-orchard Shelters f r o m the west, F r o m the east Weathers sea-wind; F r o n t s the great dunes.

21

W i n d rushes Over the dunes, A n d the coarse, salt-crusted grass Answers. Heu, It whips round my ankles! II Small is This white stream, Flowing below ground F r o m the poplar-shaded hill, But the water is sweet. Apples on the small trees A r e hard, Too small, Too late ripened B y a desperate sun That struggles through sea-mist. The boughs of the trees A r e twisted B y many bafflings; Twisted are The small-leafed boughs. But the shadow of them Is not the shadow of the mast head N o r of the torn sails.

22

Hermes, Hermes, The great sea foamed, Gnashed its teeth about me; But you have waited, Where sea-grass tangles with Shore-grass. H . D.

23

PRIAPUS Keeper-of-Orchards I saw the first pear A s it fell. The honey-seeking, golden-banded, The yellow swarm Was not more fleet than I, (Spare us from loveliness!) A n d I fell prostrate, Crying, Thou hast flayed us with thy blossoms; Spare us the beauty O f fruit-trees! The honey-seeking Paused not, The air thundered their song, A n d I alone was prostrate. O rough-hewn God of the orchard, I bring thee an offering; Do thou, alone unbeautiful (Son of the god), Spare us from loveliness. The fallen hazel-nuts, Stripped late of their green sheaths,

24

The grapes, red-purple, Their berries Dripping with wine, Pomegranates already broken, A n d shrunken fig, A n d quinces untouched, I bring thee as offering. H . D.

25

ACON (After Joannes Baptista I Bear me to Dictaeus, A n d to the steep slopes; T o the river Erymanthus. I choose spray of dittany, Cyperum frail of flower, Buds of myrrh, All-healing herbs, Close pressed in calathes. F o r she lies panting, Drawing sharp breath, Broken with harsh sobs, She, Hyella, W h o m no god pitieth. II Dryads, Haunting the groves, Nereids, W h o dwell in wet caves, F o r all the whitish leaves of olive-branch, A n d early roses, A n d ivy wreathes, woven gold berries, W h i c h she once brought to your altars, Amaltheus)

26

Bear now ripe fruits from Arcadia, A n d Assyrian wine T o shatter her fever. The light of her face falls from its flower, A s a hyacinth, Hidden in a far valley, Perishes upon burnt grass. Pales, Bring gifts, Bring your Phoenician stuffs, A n d do you, fleet-footed nymphs, Bring offerings, Illyrian iris, A n d a branch of shrub, A n d frail-headed poppies. H . D.

27

HERMONAX Gods of the sea; Ino, Leaving warm meads F o r the green, grey-green fastnesses O f the great deeps; A n d Palemn, Bright striker of sea-shaft, Hear me. Let all whom the sea loveth, Come to its altar front, And I W h o can offer no other sacrifice to thee Bring this. Broken by great waves, The wavelets flung it here, This sea-gliding creature, This strange creature like a weed, Covered with salt foam, T o r n from the hillocks O f rock. I, Hermonax, Caster of nets, Risking chance, Plying the sea craft, Came on it.

28

Thus to sea god Cometh gift of sea wrack ; I, Hermonax, offer it T o thee, Ino, A n d to Palemn. H. D.

29

EPIGRAM (After the Greek)

The golden one is gone from the banquets; She, beloved of Atimetus, The swallow, the bright Homonoea: Gone the dear chatterer.

H. D.

30

I London, my beautiful, it is not the sunset nor the pale green sky shimmering through the curtain of the silver birch, nor the quietness ; it is not the hopping of birds upon the lawn, nor the darkness stealing over all things that moves me. But as the moon creeps slowly over the tree-tops among the stars, I think of her and the glow her passing sheds on men. London, my beautiful, I will climb into the branches to the moonlit tree-tops, that my blood may be cooled by the wind.
F . S. F L I N T

31

II
HALLUCINATION

I know this room, and there are corridors: the pictures, I have seen before ; the statues and those gems in cases I have wandered by before, stood there silent and lonely in a dream of years ago. I know the dark of night is all around me ; my eyes are closed, and I am half asleep. M y wife breathes gently at my side. But once again this old dream is within me, and I am on the threshold waiting, \vondering, pleased, and fearful. Where do those doors lead, what rooms lie beyond them? I venture. . . . But my baby moves and tosses from side to side, and her need calls me to her. N o w I stand awake, unseeing, in the dark, and I move towards her cot. . . . I shall not reach her . . . There is no direction. . . . I shall walk on. . . . F S FLINT

32

III Immortal? . . . No, they cannot be, these people, nor I. Tired faces, eyes that have never seen the world, bodies that have never lived in air, lips that have never minted speech, they are the clipped and garbled, blocking the highway. They swarm and eddy between the banks of glowing shops towards the red meat, the potherbs, the cheap jacks, or surge in before the swift rush of the clanging trams, pitiful, ugly, mean, encumbering. Immortal? . . . In a wood, watching the shadow of a bird leap from frond to frond of bracken, I am immortal. But these ?
F . S. F L I N T

33

IV The grass is beneath my head; and I gaze at the thronging stars in the night. They fall . . . they fall. . . . I am overwhelmed, and afraid. Each leaf of the aspen is caressed by the wind, and each is crying. A n d the perfume of invisible roses deepens the anguish. Let a strong mesh of roots feed the crimson of roses upon my heart; and then fold over the hollow where all the pain was.
F . S. F L I N T

34


T H E SWAN

Under the lily shadow and the gold and the blue and mauve that the whin and the lilac pour down on the water, the fishes quiver. Over the green cold leaves and the rippled silver and the tarnished copper of its neck and beak, toward the deep black water beneath the arches, the swan floats slowly. Into the dark of the arch the swan floats and into the black depth of my sorrow it bears a white rose of flame.
F . S. F L I N T

35

NOCTURNES I Thy feet, That are like little, silver birds, Thou hast set upon pleasant ways; Therefore I will follow thee, Thou Dove of the Golden Eyes, Upon any path will I follow thee, For the light of thy beauty Shines before me like a torch. II Thy feet are white Upon the foam of the sea; Hold me fast, thou bright Swan, Lest I stumble, A n d into deep waters. III Long have I been But the Singer beneath thy Casement, A n d now I am weary. I am sick with longing, O my Beloved; Therefore bear me with thee Swiftly Upon our road.

36

IV W i t h the net of thy hair Thou hast fished in the sea, A n d a strange fish Hast thou caught in thy net; For thy hair, Beloved, Holdeth my heart Within its web of gold. V I am weary with love, and thy lips A r e night-born popies. Give me therefore thy lips That I may know sleep. VI I am weary with longing, I am faint with love; For upon my head has the moonlight Fallen As a sword.
SKIPWITH C A N N L L

37

IN A GARDEN Gushing from the mouths of stone men T o spread at ease under the sky In granite-lipped basins, Where iris dabble their feet A n d rustle to a passing wind, The water fills the garden with its rushing, In the midst of the quiet of close-clipped lawns. Damp smell the ferns in tunnels of stone, Where trickle and plash the fountains, Marble fountains, yellowed with much water. Splashing down moss-tarnished steps It falls, the water; A n d the air is throbbing with i t ; W i t h its gurgling and running; W i t h its leaping, and deep, cool murmur. A n d I wished for night and you. I wanted to see you in the swimming-pool, White and shining in the silver-flecked water. While the moon rode over the garden, High in the arch of night, A n d the scent of the lilacs was heavy with stillness. Night and the water, and you in your whiteness, bathing !
AMY LOWELL

38

POSTLUDE Now that I have cooled to you Let there be gold of tarnished masonry, Temples soothed by the sun to ruin That sleep utterly. Give me hand for the dances, Ripples at Philse, in and out, A n d lips, my Lesbian, W a l l flowers that once were flame. Y o u r hair is my Carthage A n d my arms the bow A n d our words arrows T o shoot the stars, W h o from that misty sea Swarm to destroy us. But you're there beside me Oh, how shall I defy you W h o wound me in the night W i t h breasts shining Like Venus and like Mars? The night that is shouting Jason When the loud eaves rattle A s with waves above me Blue at the prow of my desire ! O prayers in the dark ! O incense to Poseidon! Calm in Atlantis.
W I L L I A M CARLOS W I L L I A M S

39

I HEAR A N ARMY I hear an army charging upon the land, A n d the thunder of horses plunging; foam about their knees : Arrogant, in black armour, behind them stand, Disdaining the rains, with fluttering whips, the Char ioteers. They cry into the night their battle name : I moan in sleep when I hear afar their whirling laughter. They cleave the gloom of dreams, a blinding flame, Clanging, clanging upon the heart as upon an anvil. They come shaking in triumph their long grey hair : They come out of the sea and run shouting by the shore. M y heart, have you no wisdom thus to despair? M y love, my love, my love, why have you left me alone ?
JAMES JOYCE

40

'

Be in me as the eternal moods of the bleak wind, and not As transient things are gaiety of flowers. Have me in the strong loneliness of sunless cliffs A n d of grey waters. Let the gods speak softly of us In days hereafter, The shadowy flowers of Orcus Remember Thee.
EZRA POUND

41

THE

RETURN

See, they return; ah, see the tentative Movements, and the slow feet, The trouble in the pace and the uncertain Wavering ! See, they return, one, and by one, W i t h fear, as half-awakened; A s if the snow should hesitate A n d murmur in the wind and half turn back ; These were the "Wing'd-with-Awe," Inviolable. Gods of the winged shoe! W i t h them the silver hounds sniffing the trace of air! Haie! Haie! These were the swift to harry; These the keen-scented; These were the souls of blood. Slow on the leash, pallid the leash-men !
EZRA POUND

42

AFTER CH'U YUAN I will get me to the wood Where the gods walk garlanded in wisteria, By the silver-blue flood move others with ivory cars. There come forth many maidens to gather grapes for the leopards, my friend. For there are leopards drawing the cars. I will walk in the glade, I will come out of the new thicket and accost the procession of maidens.
EZRA POUND

43

LIU C H ' E

The rustling of the silk is discontinued, Dust drifts over the courtyard, There is no sound of footfall, and the leaves Scurry into heaps and lie still, A n d she the rejoicer of the heart is beneath them: A wet leaf that clings to the threshold.
EZRA POUND.

44

FAN-PIECE

F O R H E R IMPERIAL

LORD

O fan of white silk, clear as frost on the grass-blade, Y o u also are laid aside.
EZRA POUND

45

TS'AI CHI'H The petals fall in the fountain, the orange coloured rose-leaves, Their ochre clings to the stone.
EZRA POUND.

46

IN T H E LITTLE OLD MARKET-PLACE (To the Memory of . V.)

It rains, it rains, From gutters and drains A n d gargoyles and gables : It drips from the tables That tell us the tolls upon grains, Oxen, asses, sheep, turkeys and fowls Set into the rain-soaked wall O f the old T o w n H a l l . The mountains being so tall A n d forcing the town on the river, The market's so small That, with the wet cobbles, dark arches and all, The owls (For in dark rainy weather the owls fly out Well before four), so the owls In the gloom Have too little room A n d brush by the saint on the fountain In veering about. The poor saint on the fountain! Supported by plaques of the giver To whom we're beholden; His name was de Sales And his wife's name von Mangel.

47

( N o w is he a saint or archangel?) He stands on a dragon O n a ball, on a column Gazing up at the vines on the mountain : A n d his falchion is golden A n d his wings are all golden. He bears golden scales A n d in spite of the coils of his dragon, without hint of alarm or invective Looks up at the mists on the mountain. ( N o w what saint or archangel Stands winged on a dragon, Bearing golden scales and a broad bladed sword all golden ? Alas, my knowledge O f all the saints of the college, O f all these glimmering, olden Sacred and misty stories O f angels and saints and old glories . . . Is sadly defective.) The poor saint on the fountain . . . On top of his column Gazes up sad and solemn. But is it towards the top of the mountain Where the spindrifty haze is That he gazes? O r is it into the casement Where the girl sits sewing? There's no knowing.

48

H e a r it r a i n ! A n d f r o m eight leaden pipes i n the ball he stands on T h a t has eight leaden and copper bands on, T h e r e gurgle and d r a i n E i g h t driblets o f water d o w n into the basin. A n d he stands on his dragon A n d the g i r l sits s e w i n g H i g h , v e r y h i g h i n her casement A n d before her are m a n y geraniums i n a parket A l l growing and blowing In b o x u p o n b o x F r o m the gables right d o w n to the basement W i t h frescoes a n d carvings and paint . . . T h e poor saint! It rains a n d it rains, I n the m a r k e t there isn't an o x , A n d i n a l l the emplacement F o r waggons there isn't a waggon, N o t a stall f o r a grape or a r a i s i n , N o t a soul i n the market Save the saint on his dragon W i t h the r a i n d r i b b l i n g d o w n i n the basin, A n d the m a i d e n that sews i n the casement. T h e y are still a n d alone, Mutterseelens alone, A n d the r a i n dribbles d o w n f r o m his heels and his crown,

49

F r o m wet stone to wet stone. It's g r e y as at d a w n , And the owls, grey and f a w n , C a l l f r o m the little t o w n h a l l W i t h its a r c h i n the w a l l , W h e r e the fire-hooks are stored. o f her casement

F r o m b e h i n d the

flowers

T h a t ' s a l l gay w i t h the carvings and paint, T h e m a i d e n gives a great y a w n , But No the p o o r saint doubt he's as b o r e d !

Stands still on his c o l u m n U p l i f t i n g his s w o r d W i t h never the ease o f a y a w n F r o m w e t d a w n to w e t d a w n . . . FORD M A D O X HUEFFER

50

SCENTED

LEAVES

FROM

A CHINESE JAR

T H E BITTER P U R P L E W I L L O W S M e d i t a t i n g on the g l o r y o f i l l u s t r i o u s lineage I lifted u p m y eyes and beheld the bitter purple w i l l o w s g r o w i n g r o u n d the tombs o f the exalted M i n g s .

T H E GOLD F I S H L i k e a breath f r o m hoarded musk, L i k e the golden fins that m o v e W h e r e the tank's green shadows part L i v i n g flames out o f the dusk A r e the l i g h t n i n g throbs of love I n the passionate lover's heart.

T H E INTOXICATED, POET A poet, h a v i n g taken the b r i d l e off his tongue, spoke thus: "More fragrant than the heliotrope, which blooms a l l the year r o u n d , better than v e r m i l i o n letters on tablets o f sendal, are thy kisses, t h o u shy o n e ! "

THE

JONQUILS

I have h e a r d that a certain princess, w h e n she f o u n d that she h a d been m a r r i e d b y a demon, w o v e a w r e a t h o f j o n q u i l s a n d sent it to the l o v e r o f f o r m e r days.

51

THE

MERMAID

T h e s a i l o r boy w h o leant o v e r the side o f the J u n k of M a n y P e a r l s , and combed the green tresses of the sea w i t h his i v o r y fingers, b e l i e v i n g that he h a d heard the voice o f a m e r m a i d , cast his b o d y d o w n between the waves.

T H E MIDDLE

KINGDOM

T h e emperors o f fourteen dynasties, c l a d i n robes of y e l l o w silk e m b r o i d e r e d w i t h the D r a g o n , w e a r i n g g o l d diadems set w i t h pearls and rubies, a n d seated on ruled over years. the thrones o f incomparable i v o r y , have M i d d l e K i n g d o m for four thousand

THE MILKY WAY M y m o t h e r taught me that e v e r y night a procession of sky, j u n k s c a r r y i n g lanterns moves silently across the a n d the w a t e r s p r i n k l e d f r o m t h e i r paddles falls I no longer believe

to the earth i n the f o r m o f dew.

that the stars are j u n k s c a r r y i n g lanterns, no longer that the dew is shaken f r o m their oars.

THE To him

SEA-SHELL the passionate lover, whose sighs come b a c k to on every breeze, a l l the w o r l d is l i k e a m u r m u r i n g

sea-shell.

52

T H E S W A L L O W TOWER A m i d a landscape haunts o f the sun. flickering w i t h poplars, and netted

by a silver stream, the S w a l l o w T o w e r stands i n the T h e w i n d s out of the f o u r quarters Against flit of heaven come to sigh a r o u n d it, the clouds forsake the zenith to bathe it w i t h continuous kisses. foam; and from the battlements its s u n - w o r n w a l l s a sea of orchards breaks i n white the birds that below are seen like fishes i n a green moat. The win

dows of the T o w e r stand open day and night ; the w i n g e d Guests come w h e n they please, and h o l d c o m m u n i c a t i o n w i t h the u n k n o w n K e e p e r of the T o w e r . ALLEN UPWARD

53

THE

ROSE I remember a day w h e n I stood o n the sea shore at

N i c e , h o l d i n g a scarlet rose i n m y hands. T h e c a l m sea, caressed by the sun, was b r i g h t l y garmented i n blue, veiled i n g o l d , a n d violet, v e r g i n g on silver. G e n t l y the waves lapped the shore, a n d scatter ing my into pearls, emeralds a n d opals, hastened t o w a r d s feet w i t h a monotonous, r h y t h m i c a l sound, l i k e the H i g h i n the clear, blue-golden s k y h u n g the great, b u r n i n g disc o f the sun. White now seagulls hovered above the waves, now barely t o u c h i n g them w i t h t h e i r s n o w - w h i t e breasts, r i s i n g anew into the heights, l i k e butterflies over Far waste. I t h r e w the rose into the sea, a n d w a t c h e d it, caught i n the w a v e , receding, r e d on the s n o w - w h i t e f o a m , paler o n the e m e r a l d w a v e . And on the sea c o n t i n u e d to r e t u r n it to me, again and again, at last no longer a flower, but s t r e w n petals restless water. So w i t h the heart, a n d w i t h a l l p r o u d things. w h a t was once a p r o u d flower . . . J O H N C O U R N O S after K . T E T M A I E R In i n the east, a ship, t r a i l i n g its smoke, g l i d e d the green meadows . . . s l o w l y f r o m sight as t h o u g h it h a d f o u n d e r e d i n the

p r o l o n g e d note o f a single h a r p - s t r i n g .

the end n o t h i n g remains but a h a n d f u l o f petals o f

54

DOCUMENTS

TO H U L M E

(. E.) A N D F I T Z G E R A L D

Is there f o r feckless poverty T h a t g r i n s at ye f o r a' that ! A h i r e d slave to none a m I, B u t u n d e r - f e d f o r a' t h a t ; F o r a' that a n d a' that, T h e toils I shun a n d a' that, M y name but mocks the guinea stamp, A n d P o u n d ' s dead broke f o r a' that.

A l t h o u g h m y linen still is clean, M y socks fine silk and a' that, A l t h o u g h I dine and d r i n k good w i n e Say, twice a week, a n d a' t h a t ; F o r a' that and a' that, M y tinsel shows and a' that, T h e s e breeks 'll no last m a n y weeks ' G a i n s t wear and tear a n d a' that.

Y e see this b i r k i e ca'ed a bard, W i ' c r y p t i c eyes and a' that, A e s t h e t i c phrases by the y a r d ; It's but E . P . for a' that, F o r a' that a n d a' that, M y verses, books a n d a' that, T h e m a n o f independent means H e looks and laughs at a' that.

57

One man will make a novelette A n d sell the same and a' that. For verse nae man can siller get, Nae editor maun fa' that. For a' that and a' that, Their royalties and a' that, W i b time to loaf and will to write I'll stick to rhyme for a' that. A n d ye may prise and gang your ways W i ' pity, sneers and a' that, I know my trade and God has made Some men to rhyme and a' that, For a' that and a' that, I maun gang on for a' that W i ' verse to verse until the hearse Carts off me wame and a' that.
W R I T T E N FOR T H E C E N A C L E OF

I909 V I D E I N T R O

D U C T I O N TO " T H E C O M P L E T E P O E T I C A L W O R K S OF T. E . H U L M E , " P U B L I S H E D A T T H E E N D OF " R I P O S T E S . "

58

ABATES, T H E S O C I A L

REFORMER

What shall be said of him, this cock-o'-hoop ? (I'm just a trifle bored, dear God of mine, Dear unknown God, dear chicken-pox of Heaven, I'm bored I say), But stillmy social friend (One has to be familiar in one's discourse) While he was puffing out his jets of wit Over his swollen-bellied pipe, one thinks, One thinks, you know, of quite a lot of things. (Dear unknown God, dear, queer-faced God, Queer, queer, queer, queer-faced God, Y o u blanky God, be quiet for half minute, A n d when I've shut up Rates, and sat on Naboth, I'll tell you half a dozen things or so.) There goes a flock of starlings N o w half a dozen years ago, (Shut up, you blighted God, and let me speak) I should have hove my sporting air-gun up A n d blazed awayand now I let 'em go It's odd how one changes; Yes, that's H i g h Germany. But still, when he was smiling like a Chinese queen, Looking as queer (I do assure you, God) A s any Chinese queen I ever saw; A n d tiddle-whiddle-whiddling about prose, T r y i n g to quiz a mutton-headed poetaster,

59

A n d choking all the time with politics W h y then I say, I contemplated him A n d marveled ( G o d ! I marveled, Write it in prose, dear God. Yes, in red ink.) A n d marveled, as I said, A t the stupendous quantity of mind A n d the amazing quality thereof. Dear God of mine, It's really most amazing, doncherknow, But really, God, I can't get off the mark ; Look here, you queer-faced God, This fellow makes me sick with all his talk, H i s ha'penny gibes at Celtic bards A n d followers of Dantehonest folk! Because, dear God, the rotten beggar goes A n d makes a Chinese blue-stocking F r o m half-digested dreams of Munich-air. A n d thenGod, why should I write it down? But Rates and Naboth Aren't half such silly fools as he is (God) F o r they are frankly asinine, While he pretends to sanity, Modernity, (dear God, dear G o d ) . It's bad enough, dear God of mine, That you have set me down in London town, Endowed me with a tattered velvet coat, Soft collar and black hat and Greek ambitions; Y o u might have left me there.

60

But now you send This "vates" here, this sage social reformer (Yes, God, you rotten Roman Catholic) T o put his hypothetical conceptions O f what a poor young poetaster would think Into his own damned shape, and then to attack it T o his own great contemplative satisfaction. What have I done, O God, That so much bitterness should flop on me? Social Reformer! That's the beggar's name. He'd have me write bad novels like himself. Yes, God, I know it's after closing time; A n d yes, I know I've smoked his cigarettes; But watch that sparrow on the fountain in the rain. H o w half a dozen years ago, (Shut up, you blighted God, and let me speak) I should have hove my sporting air-gun up A n d blazed awayand now I let him go It's odd how one changes; Yes, that's H i g h Germany. R. A .

61

FRAGMENTS ADDRESSED H. TO ALDI

BY CLEARCHUS

. 4 3 tv (, ) cp ( ) ,
2 1

( , , ) 'tv ( ) [ ' , ' .

4

NOTES. (1)

(2) (3) (4)

A vehicle conducting passengers f r o m Athens, the capital o f Greece, to the temple o f the winds, w h i c h stands i n a respectable suburb. Rendered by B u t l e r , "o G o d ! O M o n t r e a l !" Sappho!!!!!! Xenophon's Anabasis. F . . H .

62

BIBLIOGRAPHY F. S. F L I N T " T h e Net of the Stars." Published by E l k i n Mathews, 4 Cork St., London, W .
EZRA

POUNDCollected Poems (Personae, Exulta tions, Canzoni, Ripostes). Published by E l k i n Mathews. "The Sonnets and Ballate of Guido Cavalcanti." Published by Small, Maynard & Co. Boston. The Canzoni of Arnaut Daniel. R. F . Seymour & Co., Fine Arts Bldg., Chicago.

TRANSLATIONS:

PROSE :

"The Spirit of Romance." A study of mediaeval poetry. Dent & Sons. London.
FORD

H U E F F E R " C o l l e c t e d Poems." Pub lished by M a x Goschen, 20 Gt. Russel St., L o n don. Forty volumes of prose with various pub lishers.
MADOX

A L L E N U P W A R D A u t h o r of "The New W o r d , " "The

Divine Mystery," etc., etc. The "Scented Leaves" appears in "Poetry" September 1913.
W I L L I A M C A R L O S W I L L I A M S " T h e Tempers."

for Pub

lished by E l k i n Mathews. A M Y L O W E L L " A Dome of Many Coloured Glass." Published by Houghton, Mifflin. Boston.

63

POETRY
A MAGAZINE OF VERSE E d i t e d b y H a r r i e t M o n r o e , 543 C a s s St., C h i c a g o , I11.. P O E T R Y , at the end of its first year, is no l o n g e r an e x p e r i m e n t but an a s s u r e d a r t i s t i c success, a p u b l i c a t i o n w h o s e i m p o r t a n c e is a u t h o r i t a t i v e l y r e c o g n i z e d , not o n l y i n this c o u n t r y , but i n G r e a t B r i t a i n and F r a n c e as w e l l . The field it has o p e n e d up is full of b r i l l i a n t p o s s i b i l i t i e s , en c o u r a g i n g the e d i t o r s to hope for the e n t h u s i a s t i c sup p o r t of a d i s c r i m i n a t i n g p u b l i c . P O E T R Y e n d e a v o r s to p r e s e n t the best verse n o w b e i n g w r i t t e n i n E n g l i s h , q u a l i t y a l o n e b e i n g the test of ac ceptance. P O E T R Y is an effort to create an o r g a n for the art. While the o r d i n a r y m a g a z i n e s m u s t m i n i s t e r to a l a r g e p u b l i c l i t t l e i n t e r e s t e d i n p o e t r y , this m a g a z i n e appeals to and w i l l d e v e l o p a p u b l i c p r i m a r i l y i n t e r e s t e d i n poetry- as an art, p o t e n t i a l l y the highest, m o s t c o m p l e t e h u m a n ex p r e s s i o n of t r u t h a n d beauty. T h u s it offers to poets a chance to be h e a r d b y t h e i r o w n audience, i n t h e i r o w n place, w i t h o u t the l i m i t a t i o n s i m p o s e d b y the p o p u l a r m a g a z i n e s . A n d to l o v e r s of p o e t r y it offers each m o n t h a sheaf of n e w verse i n delicate f o r m u n i n t e r r u p t e d b y p r o s e a r t i c l e s d e m a n d i n g a different m o o d . If Y o u L o v e G o o d P o e t r y , S u b s c r i b e POETRY 543 C a s s Street, C h i c a g o . Send POETRY for one y e a r ($1.50 e n c l o s e d ) beginning to Name Address

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