D037

TWELVE POEMS BY J. C. SQUIRE

UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA LOS ANGELES

ERRATA

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TWELVE

POEMS

By J.C. SQUIRE

Decorations by A. Spare, cut on wood by W. Quick

The Morland Press Ltd 190 Ebury St. SW

CONTENTS ON A FRIEND RECENTLY DEAD I

THE SHIP .THE MARCH FAITH

A FRESH MORNING INTERIOR ODE: IN A RESTAURANT

II III IV

V VI

16 16

ON A FRIEND RECENTLY DEAD

I

HE stream goes fast. When this that is the pres- ent is the past, 'T will be as all the other

pasts have been, A failing hill, a daily dim- ming scene, A far strange port with foreign life astir The ship has left behind, the voyager Will never return to; no, nor see again, Though with a heart full of longing he may

strain

Back to project himself, and once more count The boats, the whitened walls that climbed

the mount,

Mark the cathedral's roof, the gathered spires, The vanes, the windows red with sunset's fires, The gap of the market-place, and watch again The coloured groups of women, and the men Lounging at ease along the low stone wall That fringed the harbour; and there beyond it

all

High pastures morning and evening scattered with small

Specks that were grazing sheep .... It is all

gone,

It is all blurred that once so brightly shone; He cannot now with the old clearness see The rust upon one ringbolt of the quay.

II

ND yesterday is dead, and

you are dead. Your duplicate that hovered

in my head

Thins like blown wreathing smoke, your features grow

To interrupted outlines, and all will go Unless I tight dispersal with my will . . . So I shall do it ... but too conscious still That, when we walked together, had 1 known How soon your journey was to end alone, I should not now, that you have gone from

view

Be gathering derelict odds and ends of you; But in the intense lucidity of pain Your likeness would have burnt into my brain. I did not know; lovable and unique, As volatile as a bubble and as weak, You sat with me, and my eyes registered This thing and that, and sluggishly I heard Your voice, remembering here and there a word.

Ill

1O in rny mind there's not

much left of you, And that disintegrates;

but while a few Patches of memory's

mirror still are bright Nor your reflected image there has quite

Faded and slipped away, it will be well To search for each surviving syllable Of voice and body andsoul. And some I'll find Right to my hand, and some tangled and blind Among the obscure weeds that fill the mind.

A pause

I plunge my thought's hooked resolute claws Deep in the turbid past. Like drowned things

in the jaws

Of grappling-irons, your features to the verge Of conscious knowledge one by one emerge. Can I not make these scattered things unite? . . I knit my brows and clench my eyelids tight And focus to a point . . . Streams of dark

pinkish light

Convolve; and now spasmodically there flit Clear pictures of you as you used to sit:— The way you crossed your legs stretched in your chair,

Elbow at rest and tumbler in the air, Jesting on books and politics and worse, And still good company when most perverse. Capricious friend!

Here in this room not long before the end, Here in this very room six months ago You poised your foot and joked and chuckled

so.

Beyond the window shook the ash-tree bough, You saw books, pictures, as I see them now, The sofa then was blue, the telephone Listened upon the desk, and softly shone Even as now the fire-irons in the grate, And the little brass pendulum swung, a seal

of fate Stamping the minutes; and the curtains on

window and door Just moved in the air; and on the dark boards

of the floor These same discreetly-coloured rugs were

lying . . . And then you never had a thought of dying.

IV

OU are not here, and all the things in the room Watch me alone in the gradual growing gloom. The you that thought and felt are I know not where,

The you that sat and drank in that arm-chair Will never sit there again. For months you have lain Under a graveyard's green In some place abroad where I've never

never been.

Perhaps there is a stone over you, Or only the wood and the earth and the

grass cover you. But it doesn't much matter; for dead and

decayed you lie Like a million million others who felt they

would never die,

Like Alexander and Helen the beautiful, And the last collier hanged for murdering his

trull ; All done with and buried in an equal bed.

V.

ES, you are dead like all

the other dead. You are not here, but I

am here alone. And evening falls, fusing

tree, water and stone Into a violet cloth, and the frail ash-tree hisses With a soft sharpness like a fall of mounded

grain. And a steamer softly puffing along the river

passes, Drawing a file of barges; and silence falls

again. And a bell tones; and the evening darkens;

and in sparse rank The greenish lights well out along the other

bank. I have no force left now; the sights and

sounds impinge. Upon me unresisted, like raindrops on the

mould. And striving not against my melancholy

mood,

Limp as a door that hangs upon one failing hinge,

7

Limp, with slack marrowless arms and thighs,

I sit and brood On death and death and death. And quiet,

thin and cold, Following of this one friend the hopeless

helpless ghost, The weak appealing wraiths of notable men

of old Who died, pass through the air; and then,

host after host,

Innumerable, overwhelming, without form, Rolling across the sky in awful silent storm, The myriads of the undiflEerentiated dead Whom none recorded, or of whom the record

fade.

spectacle appallingly sublime! I see the universe one long dis- astrous strife,

And in the staggering abysses of backward and forward time Death chasing hard upon the

heels of creating life. And I, I see myself as one of a heap of stones Wetted a moment to life as the flying wave

goes over,

Onward and never returning, leaving no mark behind.

There's nothing to hope for. Blank cessation

numbs my mind, And I feel my heart thumping gloomy against

its cover, My heavy belly hanging from my bones.

VI

ELOW in the dark street There is a tap of feet, I rise and angrily meditate How often I have let of

late This thought of death

come over me. How often I will sit and backward trace The deathly history of the human race, The ripplesof men who chatteredand were still, Known and unknown, older and older, until Before man's birth I fall, shivering and aghast Through a hole in the bottom of the remotest past;

Till painfully my spirit throws Her giddiness of?; and then as soon As I recover and try to think again, Life seems like death ; and all my body grows

Icily cold, and all my brain Cold as the jagged craters of the moon. . . . And I wonder is it not strange that I Who thus have heard eternity's black laugh

And felt its freezing breath, Should sometimes shut it out from memory So as to play quite prettily with death, And turn an easy epitaph?

10

can hear a voice whisper- ing in my brain: 'Why this is the old

futility again! Criminal! day by day Your own life is ebbing

swiftly away. And what have you done with it, Except to become a maudlin hyprocrite ? '

Yes, I know, I know; One should not think of death or the dead

overmuch ; but one's mind's made so That at certain times the roads of thought

all lead to death,

And false reasoning clouds one's soul as a window with breath

Is clouded in winter's air, And all the faith one may have Lies useless and dead as a body in the grave.

n

THE SHIP

HERE was no song nor

shout of joy

Nor beam of moon or sun, When she came back from

the voyage Long ago begun; But twilight on the waters Was quiet and grey,

And she glided steady, steady and pensive, Over the open bay.

Her sails were brown and ragged,

And her crew hollow-eyed, But their silent lips spoke content

And their shoulders pride; Though she had no captives on her deck,

And in her hold There were no heaps of corn or timber

Or silks or gold.

THE MARCH

heard a voice that cried, "make way for those who died !"

And all the coloured crowd like ghosts at morning fled;

And down the waiting road, rank after rank there strode,

In mute and measured march

a hundred thousand dead.

A hundred thousand dead, with firm and noise- less tread,

All shadowy-grey yet solid, with faces grey and ghast,

And by the house they went, and all their brows were bent

Straight forward; and they passed, and passed, and passed, and passed.

But O there came a place, and O there came

a face, That clenched my heart to see it, and sudden

turned my way; And in the Face that turned I saw two eyes

that burned, Never-forgotten eyes, and they had things to

say.

Like desolate stars they shone one moment,

and were gone, And I sank down and put my arms across

my head, And felt them moving past, nor looked to see

the last, In steady silent march, our hundred thousand

dead.

FAITH

HEN I seek truth, do I seek truth

Only that I may things de- note,

And, rich by striving, deck my youth

As with a vain unusual coat ?

Or seek I truth for other ends: That she in other hearts may stir,

That even my most familiar friends May turn from me to look on her?

So I this day myself was asking;

Out of the window skies were blue And Thames was in the sunlight basking;

My thoughts coiled inwards like a screw.

I watched them anxious for a while;

Then quietly, as I did watch, Spread in my soul a sudden smile:

I knew that no firm thing they'd catch.

And I remembered if I leapt

Upon the bosom of the wind It would sustain me; question slept;

I felt that I had almost sinned.

A FRESH MORNING OW am I a tin whistle Through which God blows, And I wish to God I were

trumpet —But why, God only knows.

INTERIOR

I and myself swore enmity. Alack, Myself has tied my hands behind my back. Yielding, I know there's no excuse in them — I was accomplice to the stratagem.

16

ODE: IN A RESTAURANT

N this dense hall of green

and gold, Mirrors and lights and

steam, there sit Two hundred munching men;

While several score of

others flit

Like scurrying beetles over a fen, With plates in fanlike spread; or fold Napkins, or jerk the corks from bottles, Ministers to greedy throttles. Some make noises while they eat, Pick their teeth or shuffle their feet, Wipe their noses 'neath eyes that range Or frown whilst waiting for their change. Gobble, gobble, toil and trouble. Soul ! this life is very strange, And circumstances very foul Attend the belly 's stormy howl. How horrible this noise! this air how thick! It is disgusting ... I feel sick . . . Loosely I prod the table with a fork, My mind gapes, dizzies, ceases to work . . .

The weak unsatisfied strain Of a band in another room

17

Through this dull complex din Comes winding thin and sharp! The gnat-like mourning of the violin, The faint strings of the harp. The sounds pierce in and die again, Like keen-drawn threads of ink dropped into

a glass Of water, which curl and relax and soften

and pass.

Briefly the music hovers in unstable poise, Then melts away, drowned in the heavy sea of noise.

And I, I am now emasculate. All my forces dissipate; Conquered by matter utterly, Moving not, willing not, I lie, Like a man whom timbers pin When the roof of a mine falls in.

ALT! ... as a cloud con- denses

I press my mind, recover Dominion of my senses. With newly flowing blood I lift, and now float over

The restaurant's expanses

Like a draggled sea-gull over dreary flats of mud.

18

An effort ... ah ... I urge and push, And now with greater strength I flush, The hall is full of my pinions' rush; No drooping now, the place is mine, Beating the walls with shattering wings, Over the herd my spirit swings, In triumph shouts "Aha, you swine! Grovel before your lord divine! I, only I, am real here! ..." Through the uncertain firmament, Still bestial in their dull content. The despicable phantoms leer . . . Hogs! even now in my right hand I hold at my will the thunderbolts Measured not in mortal volts, Would crash you to annihilation! Lit with a new illumination, What need I of ears and eyes Of flesh? Imperious I will rise, Dominate you as a god Who only does not trouble to wield the rod Of death, or kick your weak spheroid Like a football through the void!

Ha! was it but a dream? And did it merely seem? Ha! not yet free of your cage,

'9

Soul, spite of all your rage?

Come now, this foe engage!

With explosion of your might

Oh heave, oh leap and flash up, soul,

Like a stabbing scream in the night!

Hurl aside this useless bowl

Of a body . . .

But there comes a shock

A soft, tremendous shock Of contact with the body; I lose all power, And fall back, back, like a solitary rower Whose prow that debonair the waves did

ride

Is suddenly hurled back by an iron tide. O sadness, sadness, feel the returning pain Of touch with unescapable mortal things again!

The cloth is linen, the floor is wood,

My plate holds cheese,my tumbler toddy ;

I cannot get free of the body,

And no man ever could.

Self! do not lose your hold on life, Nor coward seek to shrink the strife Of body and spirit; even now (Not for the first timej, even now Clear in your ears has rung the message

That tense abstraction is the passage To nervelessness and living death. Never forget while you draw breath That all the hammers of will can never Your chained soul from matter sever; And though it be confused and mixed, This is the world in which you're fixed. Never despise the things that are. Set your teeth upon the grit. Though your heart like a motor beat, Hold fast this earthly star, The whole of it, the whole of it.

OOK on this crowd now, calm now, look. Remember now that

each one drew Woman's milk (which you partook)

And year by year in

wonder grew.

Scorn not them, nor scorn not their feasts (Which you partake) nor call them beasts. These be children of one Power With you, nor higher you nor lower. They also hear the harp and fiddle, And sometimes quail before the riddle.

21

They also have hot blood, quick thought, And try to do the things they ought, They also have hearts that ache when

stung,

And sigh for days when they were young, And curse their wills because they falter, And know that they will never alter. See these men in a world of men. Material bodies? — yes, what then? These coarse trunks that here you see Judge them not, lest judged you be, Bow not to the moment's curse, Nor make four walls a universe. Think of these bodies here assembled, Whence they have come, where they

have trembled

With the strange force that fills us all, Men and beasts both great and small. Here within this fleeting home Two hundred men have this day come; Here collected for 'one day, Each shall go his separate way. Self, you can imagine nought Of all the battles they have fought, All the labours they have done, All the journeys they have run. O, they have come from all the world, Borne by invisible currents, swirled

22

Like leaves into this vortex here Flying, or like the spirits drear Windborne and frail, whom Dante saw, Who yet obeyed some hidden law.

Is it not miraculous That they should here be gathered thus, All to be spread before your view, Who are strange to them as they to you? Soul, how can you sustain without a sob, The lightest thought of this titanic throb Of earthly life, that swells and breaks Into leaping scattering waves of fire, Into tameless tempests of effort and storms of desire

That eternally makes The confused glittering armies of humankind,

To their own heroism blind, Swarm over the earth to build, to dig, and to

till, To mould and compel land and sea to their

will . , . Whence we are here eating . . .

Standing here as on a high hill, Strain, my imagination, strain forth to embrace The energies that labour for this place, This place, this instant. Beyond your island's verge,

Listen, and hear the roaring impulsive surge, The clamour of voices, the blasting of powder,

the clanging of steel, The thunder of hammers, the rattle of oars . . .

For this one meal Ten thousand Indian hamlets stored their

yields, Manchurian peasants sweltered in their

fields, And Greeks drove carts to Patras, and lone

men

Saw burning summer come and go again And huddled from the winds of winter on The fertile deserts of Saskatchewan. To fabricate these things have been march- ings and slaughters, The sun has toiled and the moon has moved

the waters, Cities have laboured, and crowded plains, and

deep in the earth Men have plunged unafraid with ardour to

wrench the worth Of sweating dim-lit caverns, and paths have

been hewn Through forests where for uncounted years

nor sun nor moon Have penetrated, men have driven straight

shining rails

H

Through the dense bowels of mountains, and climbed their frozen tops, and wrinkled sailors have shouted at shouting gales In the huge Pacific, and battled around the

Horn

And gasping, coasted to Rio, and turning to- wards the morn, Fought over the wastes to Spain, and battered

and worn,

Sailed up the channel, and on into the Nore To the city of masts and the smoky familiar

shore. So, so of every substance you see around

Might a tale be unwound Of perils passed, of adventurous journeys made In man's undying and stupendous crusade. This flower of man's energies Trade Brought hither to hand and lip By waggon, train or ship, Each atom that we eat. . . . Stare at the wine, stare at the meat. The mutton which these platters fills Grazed upon a thousand hills; This bread so square and white and dry Once was corn that sang to the sky; And all these spruce, obedient wines Flowed from the vatted fruit of vines That trailed, a bright maternal host,

The warm Mediterranean coast, Or spread their Bacchic mantle on That Iberian Helicon Where the slopes of Portugal Crown the Atlantic's eastern wall.

mighty energy, never- failing flame! O patient toils and jour- neys in the name Of Trade! No journey

ever was the same _ As another, nor ever came again one; task;

And each man's face is an ever-changing mask. From the minutest cell to the lordliest star All things are unique, though all of their kin- dred are. And though all things exist for ever, all life

is change, And the oldest passions come to each heart

in a garment strange. Though life be as brief as a flower and the

body but dust, Man walks the earth holding both body and

spirit in trust;

And the various glories of sense are spread for his delight,

26

New pageants glow in the sunset, new stars

are born in the night, And clouds come every day, and never a shape

recurs, And the grass grows every year, yet never the

same blade stirs Another spring, and no delving man breaks

again the self-same clod As he did last year though he stand once more

where last year he trod. O wonderful procession fore-ordained by God ! Wonderful in unity, wonderful in diversity.

Contemplate it, soul, and see How the material universe moves and strives

with anguish and glee!

I was born for that reason,

With muscles, heart and eyes, To watch each following season,

To work and to be wise; Not body and mind to tether

To unseen things alone, But to traverse together

The known and the unknown. My muscles were not welded

To waste away in sleep, My bones were never builded

To throw upon a heap.

27

" Man worships God in action,"

Senses and reason call, " And thought is putrefaction,

If thought is all in all!"

OST of the guests are gone; look over there, Against a pillar leans with

absent air A tall, dark, pallid waiter.

There he stands Limply, with vacant eyes

and listless hands. He dreams of some small Tyrolean town, A church, a bridge, a stream that rushes

down. . . .

A frustrate, hankering man, this one short time Unconscious he into my gaze did climb; He sinks again, again he is but one Of many myriads underneath the sun, Now faint, now vividl . . . How puzzling is

it all!

For now again, in spite of all, The lights, the chairs, the diners, and the hall Lost their opacity.

Fool! exert your will, Finish your whisky up, and pay your bill.

UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA, LOS ANGELES

THE UNIVERSITY LIBRARY This book is DUE on the last date stamped below

THE LIBRARY •ERSITY OF CALIFORNIA LOS ANGELES

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S77t Twelve poems. 1916

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6037 S77t 1916