Complete Poems 3 (Robert Graves Programme) Page 12

  SOSPAN FACH

  (The Little Saucepan)

  Four collier lads from Ebbw Vale

  Took shelter from a shower of hail,

  And there beneath a spreading tree

  Attuned their mouths to harmony.

  With smiling joy on every face

  Two warbled tenor, two sang bass,

  And while the leaves above them hissed with

  Rough hail, they started ‘Aberystwyth’.

  Old Parry’s hymn, triumphant, rich,

  They chanted through with even pitch,

  Till at the end of their grand noise

  I called: ‘Give us the “Sospan” boys!’

  Who knows a tune so soft, so strong,

  So pitiful as that ‘Saucepan’ song

  For exiled hope, despaired desire

  Of lost souls for their cottage fire?

  Then low at first with gathering sound

  Rose their four voices, smooth and round,

  Till back went Time: once more I stood

  With Fusiliers in Mametz Wood.

  Fierce burned the sun, yet cheeks were pale,

  For ice hail they had leaden hail;

  In that fine forest, green and big,

  There stayed unbroken not one twig.

  They sang, they swore, they plunged in haste,

  Stumbling and shouting through the waste;

  The little ‘Saucepan’ flamed on high,

  Emblem of hope and ease gone by.

  Rough pit-boys from the coaly South,

  They sang, even in the cannon’s mouth;

  Like Sunday’s chapel, Monday’s inn,

  The death-trap sounded with their din.

  The storm blows over, Sun comes out,

  The choir breaks up with jest and shout,

  With what relief I watch them part –

  Another note would break my heart!

  THE LEVELLER

  Near Martinpuisch that night of hell

  Two men were struck by the same shell,

  Together tumbling in one heap

  Senseless and limp like slaughtered sheep.

  One was a pale eighteen-year-old,

  Blue-eyed and thin and not too bold,

  Pressed for the war ten years too soon,

  The shame and pity of his platoon.

  The other came from far-off lands

  With bristling chin and whiskered hands,

  He had known death and hell before

  In Mexico and Ecuador.

  Yet in his death this cut-throat wild

  Groaned ‘Mother! Mother!’ like a child,

  While that poor innocent in man’s clothes

  Died cursing God with brutal oaths.

  Old Sergeant Smith, kindest of men,

  Wrote out two copies there and then

  Of his accustomed funeral speech

  To cheer the womenfolk of each: –

  ‘He died a hero’s death: and we

  His comrades of “A” Company

  Deeply regret his death; we shall

  All deeply miss so true a pal.’

  HATE NOT, FEAR NOT

  Kill if you must, but never hate:

  Man is but grass and hate is blight,

  The sun will scorch you soon or late,

  Die wholesome then, since you must fight.

  Hate is a fear, and fear is rot

  That cankers root and fruit alike,

  Fight cleanly then, hate not, fear not,

  Strike with no madness when you strike.

  Fever and fear distract the world,

  But calm be you though madmen shout,

  Through blazing fires of battle hurled,

  Hate not, strike, fear not, stare Death out!

  A RHYME OF FRIENDS

  (In a Style Skeltonical)

  Listen now this time

  Shortly to my rhyme

  That herewith starts

  About certain kind hearts

  In those stricken parts

  That lie behind Calais,

  Old crones and aged men

  And young childrén.

  About the Picardais,

  Who earned my thousand thanks,

  Dwellers by the banks

  Of the mournful Somme

  (God keep me therefrom

  Until War ends) –

  These, then, are my friends:

  Madame Averlant Lune,

  From the town of Béthune;

  Good Professeur la Brune

  From that town also.

  He played the piccolo,

  And left his locks to grow.

  Dear Madame Hojdés,

  Sempstress of Saint Fé.

  With Jules and Suzette

  And Antoinette,

  Her children, my sweethearts,

  For whom I made darts

  Of paper to throw

  In their mimic show,

  ‘La guerre aux tranchées’.

  That was a pretty play.

  There was old Jacques Caron,

  Of the hamlet Mailleton.

  He let me look

  At his household book,

  ‘Comment vivre cent ans’.

  What cares I took

  To obey this wise book,

  I, who feared each hour

  Lest Death’s cruel power

  On the poppied plain

  Might make cares vain!

  By Nœux-les-Mines

  Lived old Adelphine,

  Withered and clean,

  She nodded and smiled,

  And used me like a child.

  How that old trot beguiled

  My leisure with her chatter,

  Gave me a china platter

  Painted with Cherubim

  And mottoes on the rim.

  But when instead of thanks

  I gave her francs

  How her pride was hurt!

  She counted francs as dirt,

  (God knows, she was not rich)

  She called the Kaiser bitch,

  She spat on the floor,

  Cursing this Prussian war,

  That she had known before

  Forty years past and more.

  There was also ‘Tomi’,

  With looks sweet and free,

  Who called me cher ami.

  This orphan’s age was nine,

  His folk were in their graves,

  Else they were slaves

  Behind the German line

  To terror and rapine –

  O, little friends of mine

  How kind and brave you were,

  You smoothed away care

  When life was hard to bear.

  And you, old women and men,

  Who gave me billets then,

  How patient and great-hearted!

  Strangers though we started,

  Yet friends we ever parted.

  God bless you all: now ends

  This homage to my friends.

  A FIRST REVIEW

  Love, Fear and Hate and Childish Toys

  Are here discreetly blent;

  Admire, you ladies, read, you boys,

  My Country Sentiment.

  But Kate says, ‘Cut that anger and fear,

  True love’s the stuff we need!

  With laughing children and the running deer

  That makes a book indeed.’

  Then Tom, a hard and bloody chap,

  Though much beloved by me,

  ‘Robert, have done with nursery pap,

  Write like a man,’ says he.’

  Hate and Fear are not wanted here,

  Nor Toys nor Country Lovers,

  Everything they took from my new poem book

  But the flyleaf and the covers.

  From The Pier-Glass

  (1921)

  THE STAKE

  Naseboro’ held him guilty,

  Crowther took his part,

  Who lies at the cross-roads,

  A stake through his heart.

  S
pring calls, and the stake answers,

  Throwing out shoots;

  The towns debate what life is this

  Sprung from such roots.

  Naseboro’ says ‘A Upas Tree’;

  ‘A Rose,’ says Crowther;

  But April’s here to declare it

  Neither one nor other,

  Neither ill nor very fair,

  Rose nor Upas,

  But an honest oak-tree,

  As its parent was,

  A green-tufted oak-tree

  On the green wold,

  Careless as the dead heart

  That the roots enfold.

  THE TROLL’S NOSEGAY

  A simple nosegay! was that much to ask?

  (Winter still nagged, with scarce a bud yet showing.)

  He loved her ill, if he resigned the task.

  ‘Somewhere,’ she cried, ‘there must be blossom blowing.’

  It seems my lady wept and the troll swore

  By Heaven he hated tears: he’d cure her spleen –

  Where she had begged one flower he’d shower fourscore,

  A bunch fit to amaze a China Queen.

  Cold fog-drawn Lily, pale mist-magic Rose

  He conjured, and in a glassy cauldron set

  With elvish unsubstantial Mignonette

  And such vague bloom as wandering dreams enclose.

  But she?

  Awed,

  Charmed to tears,

  Distracted,

  Yet –

  Even yet, perhaps, a trifle piqued – who knows?

  THE PIER-GLASS

  Lost manor where I walk continually

  A ghost, though yet in woman’s flesh and blood.

  Up your broad stairs mounting with outspread fingers

  And gliding steadfast down your corridors

  I come by nightly custom to this room,

  And even on sultry afternoons I come

  Drawn by a thread of time-sunk memory.

  Empty, unless for a huge bed of state

  Shrouded with rusty curtains drooped awry

  (A puppet theatre where malignant fancy

  Peoples the wings with fear). At my right hand

  A ravelled bell-pull hangs in readiness

  To summon me from attic glooms above

  Service of elder ghosts; here, at my left,

  A sullen pier-glass, cracked from side to side,

  Scorns to present the face (as do new mirrors)

  With a lying flush, but shows it melancholy

  And pale, as faces grow that look in mirrors.

  Is there no life, nothing but the thin shadow

  And blank foreboding, never a wainscot rat

  Rasping a crust? Or at the window-pane

  No fly, no bluebottle, no starveling spider?

  The windows frame a prospect of cold skies

  Half-merged with sea, as at the first creation –

  Abstract, confusing welter. Face about,

  Peer rather in the glass once more, take note

  Of self, the grey lips and long hair dishevelled,

  Sleep-staring eyes. Ah, mirror, for Christ’s love

  Give me one token that there still abides

  Remote – beyond this island mystery,

  So be it only this side Hope, somewhere,

  In streams, on sun-warm mountain pasturage –

  True life, natural breath; not this phantasma.

  THE FINDING OF LOVE

  Pale at first and cold,

  Like wizard’s lily-bloom

  Conjured from the gloom,

  Like torch of glow-worm seen

  Through grasses shining green

  By children half in fright,

  Or Christmas candlelight

  Flung on the outer snow,

  Or tinsel stars that show

  Their evening glory

  With sheen of fairy story –

  Now with his blaze

  Love dries the cobweb maze

  Dew-sagged upon the corn,

  He brings the flowering thorn,

  Mayfly and butterfly,

  And pigeons in the sky,

  Robin and thrush,

  And the long bulrush,

  Bird-cherry under the leaf,

  Earth in a silken dress,

  With end to grief,

  With joy in steadfastness.

  REPROACH

  Your grieving moonlight face looks down

  Through the forest of my fears,

  Crowned with a spiny bramble-crown,

  Bedewed with evening tears.

  Why do you say ‘untrue, unkind’,

  Reproachful eyes that vex my sleep?

  Straining in memory, I can find

  No cause why you should weep.

  Untrue? But when, what broken oath?

  Unkind? I know not even your name.

  Unkind, untrue, you brand me both,

  Scalding my heart with shame.

  The black trees shudder, dropping snow,

  The stars tumble and spin.

  Speak, speak, or how may a child know

  His ancestral sin?

  THE MAGICAL PICTURE

  Glinting on the roadway

  A broken mirror lay:

  Then what did the child say

  Who found it there?

  He cried there was a goblin

  Looking out as he looked in –

  Wild eyes and speckled skin,

  Black, bristling hair!

  He brought it to his father

  Who being a simple sailor

  Swore, ‘This is a true wonder,

  Deny it who can!

  Plain enough to me, for one,

  It’s a portrait aptly done

  Of Admiral, the great Lord Nelson

  When a young man.’

  The sailor’s wife perceiving

  Her husband had some pretty thing

  At which he was peering,

  Seized it from his hand.

  Then tears started and ran free,

  ‘Jack, you have deceived me,

  I love you no more,’ said she,

  ‘So understand!’

  ‘But, Mary,’ says the sailor,

  ‘This is a famous treasure,

  Admiral Nelson’s picture

  Taken in youth.’

  ‘Viper and fox,’ she cries,

  ‘To trick me with such lies,

  Who is this wench with the bold eyes?

  Tell me the truth!’

  Up rides the parish priest

  Mounted on a fat beast.

  Grief and anger have not ceased

  Between those two;

  Little Tom still weeps for fear;

  He has seen Hobgoblin, near,

  Great white teeth and foul leer

  That pierced him through.

  Now the old priest lifts his glove

  Bidding all for God’s love

  To stand and not to move,

  Lest blood be shed.

  ‘O, O!’ cries the urchin,

  ‘I saw the devil grin,

  He glared out, as I looked in;

  A true death’s head!’

  Mary weeps, ‘Ah, Father,

  My Jack loves another!

  On some voyage he courted her

  In a land afar.’

  This, with cursing, Jack denies: –

  ‘Father, use your own eyes:

  It is Lord Nelson in disguise

  As a young tar.’

  When the priest took the glass,

  Fresh marvels came to pass:

  ‘A saint of glory, by the Mass!

  Where got you this?’

  He signed him with the good Sign,

  Be sure the relic was divine,

  He would fix it in a shrine

  For pilgrims to kiss.

  There the chapel folk who come

  (Honest, some, and lewd, some),

  See the saint’s eyes and are dumb,

  Kneeling on the flags.


  Some see the Doubter Thomas,

  And some Nathaniel in the glass,

  And others whom but old Saint Judas

  With his money bags?

  DISTANT SMOKE

  Seth and the sons of Seth who followed him

  Halted in silence: labour, then, was vain.

  Fast at the zenith, blazoned in his splendour,

  Hung the fierce Sun, wherefore these travelling folk

  Stood centred each in his own disc of shade.

  The term proposed was ended; now to enjoy

  The moment’s melancholy; their tears fell shining.

  Yesterday early at the dreadful hour,

  When life ebbs lowest, when the strand of being

  Is slowly bared until discovered show

  Weed-mantelled hulks that foundered years ago

  At autumn anchorage, then father Adam

  Summoned in haste his elder generations

  To his death-tent, and gasping spoke to them,

  Forthwith defining an immediate journey

  Beyond the eastern ridge, in quest for one

  Whom he named Cain, brother to Seth, true uncle

  To these young spearmen; they should lead him here

  For a last benediction at his hands.

  First-born yet outlawed! Scarcely they believed

  In this strange word of ‘Cain’, in this new man,

  Man, yet outside the tents; but Adam swore

  And gave them a fair sign of recognition.

  There was a brand, he said, a firm red pillar

  Parting Cain’s brows, and Cain had mighty hands,

  Sprouting luxurious hair, red, like his beard.

  Moreover Adam said that by huge strength

  Himself could stay this ebb of early morning,

  Yet three days longer, three days, though no more –

  This for the stern desire and long disquietude

  That was his love for Cain; whom God had cursed.

  Then would he kiss all fatherly and so die –

  Kneeling, with eyes abased, they made him promise,

  Swore, at the midpoint of their second day,

  If unsped in the search of whom he named,

  They would come hasting home to Adam’s tent.

  They touched his bony fingers; forth they went.

  Now Seth, shielding his eyes, sees mistily

  Breaking the horizon thirty miles away

  (A full day’s journey) what but a wisp, a feather,

  A thin line, half a nothing – distant smoke!

  Blown smoke, a signal from that utmost ridge

  Of desolation – the camp fire of Cain.

  He to restrain his twelve impetuous sons

  (He knows the razor-edge of their young spirit)

  Dissembles seeing, turns his steps about,

  Bids them come follow, but they little heeding,

  Scarce noting his commands, fasten their eyes