



Produced by Alan Light





MEN, WOMEN AND GHOSTS

by Amy Lowell


by Amy Lowell [American (Massachusetts) poet and critic--1874-1925.]


[Note on text:  Lines longer than 78 characters are broken
and the continuation is indented two spaces.  Some obvious errors
have been corrected.]



  "'... See small portions of the Eternal World that ever groweth':...
  So sang a Fairy, mocking, as he sat on a streak'd tulip,
  Thinking none saw him:  when he ceas'd I started from the trees,
  And caught him in my hat, as boys knock down a butterfly."
                                 William Blake.  "Europe.  A Prophecy."

            'Thou hast a lap full of seed,
            And this is a fine country.'
                                     William Blake.





Preface


This is a book of stories.  For that reason I have excluded all purely
lyrical poems.  But the word "stories" has been stretched to its fullest
application.  It includes both narrative poems, properly so called;
tales divided into scenes; and a few pieces of less obvious
story-telling import in which one might say that the dramatis personae
are air, clouds, trees, houses, streets, and such like things.

It has long been a favourite idea of mine that the rhythms of'vers
libre' have not been sufficiently plumbed, that there is in them a power
of variation which has never yet been brought to the light of
experiment. I think it was the piano pieces of Debussy, with their
strange likeness to short vers libre poems, which first showed me the
close kinship of music and poetry, and there flashed into my mind the
idea of using the movement of poetry in somewhat the same way that the
musician uses the movement of music.

It was quite evident that this could never be done in the strict pattern
of a metrical form, but the flowing, fluctuating rhythm of vers libre
seemed to open the door to such an experiment.  First, however, I
considered the same method as applied to the more pronounced movements
of natural objects.  If the reader will turn to the poem, "A Roxbury
Garden", he will find in the first two sections an attempt to give the
circular movement of a hoop bowling along the ground, and the up and
down, elliptical curve of a flying shuttlecock.

From these experiments, it is but a step to the flowing rhythm of music.
In "The Cremona Violin", I have tried to give this flowing, changing
rhythm to the parts in which the violin is being played.  The effect is
farther heightened, because the rest of the poem is written in the seven
line Chaucerian stanza; and, by deserting this ordered pattern for the
undulating line of vers libre, I hoped to produce something of the
suave, continuous tone of a violin.  Again, in the violin parts
themselves, the movement constantly changes, as will be quite plain to
any one reading these passages aloud.

In "The Cremona Violin", however, the rhythms are fairly obvious and
regular. I set myself a far harder task in trying to transcribe the
various movements of Stravinsky's "Three Pieces 'Grotesques', for String
Quartet". Several musicians, who have seen the poem, think the movement
accurately given.

These experiments lead me to believe that there is here much food for
thought and matter for study, and I hope many poets will follow me in
opening up the still hardly explored possibilities of vers libre.

A good many of the poems in this book are written in "polyphonic prose".
A form about which I have written and spoken so much that it seems
hardly necessary to explain it here.  Let me hastily add, however, that
the word "prose" in its name refers only to the typographical
arrangement, for in no sense is this a prose form. Only read it aloud,
Gentle Reader, I beg, and you will see what you will see. For a purely
dramatic form, I know none better in the whole range of poetry. It
enables the poet to give his characters the vivid, real effect they have
in a play, while at the same time writing in the 'decor'.

One last innovation I have still to mention.  It will be found in
"Spring Day", and more fully enlarged upon in the series, "Towns in
Colour".  In these poems, I have endeavoured to give the colour, and
light, and shade, of certain places and hours, stressing the purely
pictorial effect, and with little or no reference to any other aspect of
the places described.  It is an enchanting thing to wander through a
city looking for its unrelated beauty, the beauty by which it captivates
the sensuous sense of seeing.

I have always loved aquariums, but for years I went to them and looked,
and looked, at those swirling, shooting, looping patterns of fish, which
always defied transcription to paper until I hit upon the "unrelated"
method.  The result is in "An Aquarium". I think the first thing which
turned me in this direction was John Gould Fletcher's "London
Excursion", in "Some Imagist Poets". I here record my thanks.

For the substance of the poems--why, the poems are here. No one
writing to-day can fail to be affected by the great war raging in Europe
at this time.  We are too near it to do more than touch upon it.  But,
obliquely, it is suggested in many of these poems, most notably those in
the section, "Bronze Tablets".  The Napoleonic Era is an epic subject,
and waits a great epic poet.  I have only been able to open a few
windows upon it here and there.  But the scene from the windows is
authentic, and the watcher has used eyes, and ears, and heart, in
watching.

                                             Amy Lowell
July 10, 1916.




Contents



      Figurines in Old Saxe

  Patterns
  Pickthorn Manor
  The Cremona Violin
  The Cross-Roads
  A Roxbury Garden
  1777


      Bronze Tablets

  The Fruit Shop
  Malmaison
  The Hammers
  Two Travellers in the Place Vendome


      War Pictures

  The Allies
  The Bombardment
  Lead Soldiers
  The Painter on Silk
  A Ballad of Footmen


      The Overgrown Pasture

  Reaping
  Off the Turnpike
  The Grocery
  Number 3 on the Docket


      Clocks Tick a Century

  Nightmare:  A Tale for an Autumn Evening
  The Paper Windmill
  The Red Lacquer Music-Stand
  Spring Day
  The Dinner-Party
  Stravinsky's Three Pieces "Grotesques", for String Quartet
  Towns in Colour
   Red Slippers
   Thompson's Lunch Room--Grand Central Station
   An Opera House
   Afternoon Rain in State Street
   An Aquarium





The two sea songs quoted in "The Hammers" are taken from
'Songs:  Naval and Nautical, of the late Charles Dibdin', London,
John Murray, 1841.  The "Hanging Johnny" refrain, in "The Cremona Violin",
is borrowed from the old, well-known chanty of that name.





MEN, WOMEN AND GHOSTS




FIGURINES IN OLD SAXE




Patterns



   I walk down the garden paths,
   And all the daffodils
   Are blowing, and the bright blue squills.
   I walk down the patterned garden-paths
   In my stiff, brocaded gown.
   With my powdered hair and jewelled fan,
   I too am a rare
   Pattern.  As I wander down
   The garden paths.

   My dress is richly figured,
   And the train
   Makes a pink and silver stain
   On the gravel, and the thrift
   Of the borders.
   Just a plate of current fashion,
   Tripping by in high-heeled, ribboned shoes.
   Not a softness anywhere about me,
   Only whalebone and brocade.
   And I sink on a seat in the shade
   Of a lime tree.  For my passion
   Wars against the stiff brocade.
   The daffodils and squills
   Flutter in the breeze
   As they please.
   And I weep;
   For the lime-tree is in blossom
   And one small flower has dropped upon my bosom.

   And the plashing of waterdrops
   In the marble fountain
   Comes down the garden-paths.
   The dripping never stops.
   Underneath my stiffened gown
   Is the softness of a woman bathing in a marble basin,
   A basin in the midst of hedges grown
   So thick, she cannot see her lover hiding,
   But she guesses he is near,
   And the sliding of the water
   Seems the stroking of a dear
   Hand upon her.
   What is Summer in a fine brocaded gown!
   I should like to see it lying in a heap upon the ground.
   All the pink and silver crumpled up on the ground.

   I would be the pink and silver as I ran along the paths,
   And he would stumble after,
   Bewildered by my laughter.
   I should see the sun flashing from his sword-hilt and the buckles
     on his shoes.
   I would choose
   To lead him in a maze along the patterned paths,
   A bright and laughing maze for my heavy-booted lover,
   Till he caught me in the shade,
   And the buttons of his waistcoat bruised my body as he clasped me,
   Aching, melting, unafraid.
   With the shadows of the leaves and the sundrops,
   And the plopping of the waterdrops,
   All about us in the open afternoon--
   I am very like to swoon
   With the weight of this brocade,
   For the sun sifts through the shade.

   Underneath the fallen blossom
   In my bosom,
   Is a letter I have hid.
   It was brought to me this morning by a rider from the Duke.
   "Madam, we regret to inform you that Lord Hartwell
   Died in action Thursday se'nnight."
   As I read it in the white, morning sunlight,
   The letters squirmed like snakes.
   "Any answer, Madam," said my footman.
   "No," I told him.
   "See that the messenger takes some refreshment.
   No, no answer."
   And I walked into the garden,
   Up and down the patterned paths,
   In my stiff, correct brocade.
   The blue and yellow flowers stood up proudly in the sun,
   Each one.
   I stood upright too,
   Held rigid to the pattern
   By the stiffness of my gown.
   Up and down I walked,
   Up and down.

   In a month he would have been my husband.
   In a month, here, underneath this lime,
   We would have broke the pattern;
   He for me, and I for him,
   He as Colonel, I as Lady,
   On this shady seat.
   He had a whim
   That sunlight carried blessing.
   And I answered, "It shall be as you have said."
   Now he is dead.

   In Summer and in Winter I shall walk
   Up and down
   The patterned garden-paths
   In my stiff, brocaded gown.
   The squills and daffodils
   Will give place to pillared roses, and to asters, and to snow.
   I shall go
   Up and down,
   In my gown.
   Gorgeously arrayed,
   Boned and stayed.
   And the softness of my body will be guarded from embrace
   By each button, hook, and lace.
   For the man who should loose me is dead,
   Fighting with the Duke in Flanders,
   In a pattern called a war.
   Christ!  What are patterns for?




Pickthorn Manor



       I

   How fresh the Dartle's little waves that day!
    A steely silver, underlined with blue,
   And flashing where the round clouds, blown away,
    Let drop the yellow sunshine to gleam through
   And tip the edges of the waves with shifts
    And spots of whitest fire, hard like gems
       Cut from the midnight moon they were, and sharp
    As wind through leafless stems.
   The Lady Eunice walked between the drifts
   Of blooming cherry-trees, and watched the rifts
       Of clouds drawn through the river's azure warp.


       II

   Her little feet tapped softly down the path.
    Her soul was listless; even the morning breeze
   Fluttering the trees and strewing a light swath
    Of fallen petals on the grass, could please
   Her not at all.  She brushed a hair aside
    With a swift move, and a half-angry frown.
       She stopped to pull a daffodil or two,
    And held them to her gown
   To test the colours; put them at her side,
   Then at her breast, then loosened them and tried
       Some new arrangement, but it would not do.


       III

   A lady in a Manor-house, alone,
    Whose husband is in Flanders with the Duke
   Of Marlborough and Prince Eugene, she's grown
    Too apathetic even to rebuke
   Her idleness.  What is she on this Earth?
    No woman surely, since she neither can
       Be wed nor single, must not let her mind
    Build thoughts upon a man
   Except for hers.  Indeed that were no dearth
   Were her Lord here, for well she knew his worth,
       And when she thought of him her eyes were kind.


       IV

   Too lately wed to have forgot the wooing.
    Too unaccustomed as a bride to feel
   Other than strange delight at her wife's doing.
    Even at the thought a gentle blush would steal
   Over her face, and then her lips would frame
    Some little word of loving, and her eyes
       Would brim and spill their tears, when all they saw
    Was the bright sun, slantwise
   Through burgeoning trees, and all the morning's flame
   Burning and quivering round her.  With quick shame
       She shut her heart and bent before the law.


       V

   He was a soldier, she was proud of that.
    This was his house and she would keep it well.
   His honour was in fighting, hers in what
    He'd left her here in charge of.  Then a spell
   Of conscience sent her through the orchard spying
    Upon the gardeners.  Were their tools about?
       Were any branches broken?  Had the weeds
    Been duly taken out
   Under the'spaliered pears, and were these lying
   Nailed snug against the sunny bricks and drying
       Their leaves and satisfying all their needs?


       VI

   She picked a stone up with a little pout,
    Stones looked so ill in well-kept flower-borders.
   Where should she put it?  All the paths about
    Were strewn with fair, red gravel by her orders.
   No stone could mar their sifted smoothness.  So
    She hurried to the river.  At the edge
       She stood a moment charmed by the swift blue
    Beyond the river sedge.
   She watched it curdling, crinkling, and the snow
   Purfled upon its wave-tops.  Then, "Hullo,
       My Beauty, gently, or you'll wriggle through."


       VII

   The Lady Eunice caught a willow spray
    To save herself from tumbling in the shallows
   Which rippled to her feet.  Then straight away
    She peered down stream among the budding sallows.
   A youth in leather breeches and a shirt
    Of finest broidered lawn lay out upon
       An overhanging bole and deftly swayed
    A well-hooked fish which shone
   In the pale lemon sunshine like a spurt
   Of silver, bowed and damascened, and girt
       With crimson spots and moons which waned and played.


       VIII

   The fish hung circled for a moment, ringed
    And bright; then flung itself out, a thin blade
   Of spotted lightning, and its tail was winged
    With chipped and sparkled sunshine.  And the shade
   Broke up and splintered into shafts of light
    Wheeling about the fish, who churned the air
       And made the fish-line hum, and bent the rod
    Almost to snapping.  Care
   The young man took against the twigs, with slight,
   Deft movements he kept fish and line in tight
       Obedience to his will with every <DW8>.


       IX

   He lay there, and the fish hung just beyond.
    He seemed uncertain what more he should do.
   He drew back, pulled the rod to correspond,
    Tossed it and caught it; every time he threw,
   He caught it nearer to the point.  At last
    The fish was near enough to touch.  He paused.
       Eunice knew well the craft--"What's got the thing!"
    She cried.  "What can have caused--
   Where is his net?  The moment will be past.
   The fish will wriggle free."  She stopped aghast.
       He turned and bowed.  One arm was in a sling.


       X

   The broad, black ribbon she had thought his basket
    Must hang from, held instead a useless arm.
   "I do not wonder, Madam, that you ask it."
    He smiled, for she had spoke aloud.  "The charm
   Of trout fishing is in my eyes enhanced
    When you must play your fish on land as well."
       "How will you take him?" Eunice asked.  "In truth
    I really cannot tell.
   'Twas stupid of me, but it simply chanced
   I never thought of that until he glanced
       Into the branches.  'Tis a bit uncouth."


       XI

   He watched the fish against the blowing sky,
    Writhing and glittering, pulling at the line.
   "The hook is fast, I might just let him die,"
    He mused.  "But that would jar against your fine
   Sense of true sportsmanship, I know it would,"
    Cried Eunice.  "Let me do it."  Swift and light
       She ran towards him.  "It is so long now
    Since I have felt a bite,
