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    The Complete Poems

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    Ventriloquizing to deceive myself?

      Anger, grief, jealousy, shame confuse the issue,

      Her beauty is a truth I can not blink

      However angry, jealous, sad, ashamed.

      Dissolve, image, dissolve!

      Make no appeal to the hunter in my nature,

      Leave me to self-reproach in my own time;

      If I too promised more than you could meet,

      Your beauty overrode my sense of fate

      And fitness, with extravagant pretence.

      Is it true that we were lovers once, or nearly?

      Lovers should sleep together on one pillow

      Clasped in each other’s arms with lip to lip,

      Their bed should be a masterpiece of ease,

      A mother-of-pearl embrace for its twin pearls.

      But where do you sleep now, and where am I?

      Disdaining all the comforts of old use

      We fall apart, are made ridiculous.

      You in your cell toss miserably enough

      Under thin blankets on a springless couch,

      And I two hundred miles away or further

      Wallow in this feather bed,

      With nothing else to rest my gaze upon

      Than flowery wall-paper, bulging and stained,

      And two stern cardboard signals: ‘God is love’, and

      ‘I was a stranger and ye took Me in’,

      Ye took me in, took me in, took me in,….

      The train of my thought straggles, loses touch,

      Piles in confusion, takes the longer road,

      Runs anyhow, heads true only by chance.

      Sacred Carnivals trundle through my mind,

      With Rhyme-compulsion mottoing each waggon.

      God’s Love, the Holy Dove, and Heaven above

      Sin, deadly Sin, Begin, the Fight to Win

      Ye took me in; inn; inn; – and now a jolt

      Returns me consciousness, and weary Logic

      Gathers her snapped threads up. A mouldy inn

      Offensive with cockchafers, sour and musty,

      All night the signboard creaks and the blinds bang,

      The cupboards groan, the draught under the door

      Flurries the carpets of this inn, this inn.

      How I came here? Where else could I be bettered?

      Loneliness drew me here and cloudy weather

      With cold Spring rains to chill me through and through

      Pelting across the mountains, purging away

      Affection for a fault, restoring faith ….

      So God is Love? Admitted; still the thought

      Is Dead Sea fruit to angry baffled lovers

      Lying sleepless and alone in double beds,

      Shaken in mind, harassed with hot blood fancies.

      Break the ideal, and the animal’s left

      Which this ideal stood as mask to hide.

      Then the hot blood with no law hindering it

      Drums and buffets suddenly at the heart

      And seeks a vent with what lies first to hand.

      But yet no earthbound evil spirit comes

      Taking advantage of my unwrought mind,

      Tempting me to a gay concubinage,

      In likeness of some ancient queen of heaven

      Ardent and ever young. The legends say

      They come to hermits so, and holy saints,

      Disguised in a most blinding loveliness;

      Disrobe about the good man’s bed and twitch

      His blankets off and make as if to kiss him

      With sighs of passion irresistibly sweet.

      Yet he has power to turn on them, to cry

      ‘In the name of Christ begone!’ and go they must.

      If I were a hermit now – but being myself

      I never give them challenge, never bend

      Kneeling at my bedside for hours together

      Praying aloud for chastity – that’s the bait

      Certain to draw them from their shadowy caves,

      Their broken shrines and rockbound fastnesses –

      Praying against the World, the Flesh, the Devil,

      But pausing most on Flesh – that praying against,

      Proposing yet denying the fixed wish!

      Closest expressed it’s the most dangerous ….

      How would I say my prayers now, if I tried,

      Using what formula? Would instinct turn

      To

      Gentle Jesus meek and mild

      Look upon thy little child

      To Gentle Jesus and the entrancing picture

      Of Pretty mice in Plicity (where, alas,

      Is County Plicity now? Beyond what skyline?

      I climbed in vain to-day)…. When Rachel prays,

      Does she still dreamily speak to Gentle Jesus,

      The shepherd in that Nürnberg oleograph

      Hanging above the nursery mantelpiece?

      Her God? Anthropomorphic surely. One

      Bearded like Moses, straddled on the clouds,

      Armed with thunderbolts and shaggy eyebrows.

      ‘Bless me, dear God, and make me a good child.’

      Her childishness obscures her womanhood.

      When was I ever conscious in her presence

      That she was bodily formed like other women

      With womb for bearing and with breasts for suckling,

      With power, when she desired, to rouse in me

      By but the slightest art in diminution

      Of her accustomed childish truthfulness,

      A word or gesture hinting doubtfulness,

      The angry stream flooding beyond restraint?

      And yet no frisky wraith has come to-night

      Assuming Rachel’s body, goading me

      With false presentment of her honest person

      To mutiny and to utter overthrow;

      No wanton Venus, no bold Helen of Troy.

      For look, a different play performs to-night!

      See how come crowding in, with a bold air

      Of pertinence I do not dare to question

      This odd rag-tag-and-bobtail of lost souls,

      Ecclesiastical, furtive, dim, far gone

      In their dementia praecox! Doctor Hornblow

      On the Pentateuch, Dean Dogma upon Ruth

      (Ay, Ruth; the alien corn was not the worst)

      Keble and Pusey, Moody and Sankey griddling,

      And one most strange Victorian apparition,

      The ghost of Gladstone, with his stickout collars,

      Goes hand in hand with Señor Monkey-brand,

      Comrades who, printed on a paper cover,

      Gladstone in front and Monkey on the back,

      Made the Impregnable Rock of Holy Scripture

      Tacit defence of Darwin’s blasphemies.

      There go the ghosts of Mason, Martin Tupper,

      Dean Farrar, South, Cautionary Mrs. Turner,

      Butterfield with a spotted senior clerk,

      And a long rabble of confusing figures,

      Nuns, deacons, theologians, commentators,

      Spikes in birettas, missionaries like apes

      Hairy and chattering, bald; with, everyone,

      A book in the left hand tight clasped, the right

      Free to point scorn.

      My cauliflower-wicked candle

      Gutters and splutters on the chair beside me,

      Over two books and a letter; the crowd passing

      Groans for reproach, confident in their numbers.

      But l, long used to crowds and their cowardly ways,

      Return these insults with the cold set eye

      That breaks their corporate pride –

      What? those are plays.

      Yes, dramas by John Ford – Love’s Sacrifice,

      The Broken Heart, ’Tis Pity She’s a Whore.

      The titles shock? These things are ‘not convenient’?

      Well, try this other by (ah) Canon Trout,

      The Wisest Course of Love – why do you smile?

      The book of plays I bought, this was a present,

      Sent me w
    ith Rachel’s letter – but you smile,

      You’re smiling still? Then I apologize,

      Ladies and Lords. Indeed I never guessed

      Humour was a luxury you admitted.

      ‘’Tis pity she’s a… postulant’. Is it that?

      Malicious hearts! but you still nod, laugh, point,

      Pointing what joke? The Wisest Course of Love?

      Yes?

      I don’t see. I’ll buy it for a forfeit.

      Then a red-haired beaky-nosed burly nun

      Called Sister Agatha, so I tell myself,

      Comes nearer, throws her veil aside, takes up

      The envelope of the letter. Now she lays

      A manicured finger on the office post-mark,

      Leering down in my face.

      I see it now,

      You ugly she-bear. Wisest Course of Love

      Is Maidenhead? Then you have read the letter?

      Dictated it quite likely? You, then, you!

      I know you, nun-official set to guide

      The postulants through their long penances

      And stern soul-searchings – with the twisted grin

      Of a bawd mistress, none too well concealed,

      You greeted Rachel in the Convent Hall,

      And peered and saw that she was beautiful,

      Giving her welcome with a sisterly kiss.

      Mother Superior was quite satisfied

      After inquiry in Burke’s Landed Gentry

      That the newcomer was a suitable

      Candidate for the Order of Seven Sorrows.

      It’s so important to have ladies only!

      You twirl dear Mother round a little finger;

      You know her weaknesses, emotionalism,

      Snobbery, love of ritual; quite content

      To let her have her way in formal matters

      If you may mould the spirit of the place

      By due control of youthful aspirants,

      Postulants and novices – with the glow

      Of great devotion, honesty itself,

      You teach them hatred of their woman-flesh

      Eyeing their bodies with flagellant gaze

      Approving shame’s rebellion. Maidenhead!

      A well spiced joke! The carnal maidenhead

      Untaken, but the maidenhead of spirit

      Stolen away. Rachel in your good care!

      She says three years’ probation. For three years

      Humiliation, then she takes the veil

      And goes for ever … ‘But of course, dear Friend,

      (Where did she learn ‘Dear Friend’?)

      Should I discover when I search my heart

      That God has sealed me for some other life,

      That my intended vow of resignation

      Is only pride, why then I’m free again.

      I pray for you,’ etc., and etc.

      Dear Friend? lover or nothing it must be.

      I’m tired of friends, I’m past the need of friends.

      We never talked religion till that day.

      I took for granted Rachel used her sense,

      Thought for herself without the aid of priests

      On spiritual matters: I? I never trouble

      About such talk one year’s end to the next,

      But one day argument began; she started

      On Christian meekness, the low slavish virtue

      ‘Tapeinophrosune’, obsequiousness,

      Which I called nonsense. ‘Nonsense?’ (with wide eyes)

      ‘Or call it poetry. Christ was never meek.

      Let meekness crawl below in catacombs,

      Pride drives the money-changers with a scourge,

      Keeps silence to accusers, chooses death

      When an escape is more acceptable

      To justice than embarrassment of killing

      I’m talking paradox? I never meant it.’

      (Here I grew nettled at her wooden look)

      ‘And as for “feeling Jesus in my heart”

      What does that mean? explain!

      I might acknowledge that historically

      All generous action flows from the prime source

      Of Jesus’ teaching (though give Plato credit

      And Aristotle). But Jesus as a power

      Alive, praying, pleading like a ouija spirit,

      Or Laughing Eyes the séance influence,

      That’s stupid and unnecessary, in my mind.

      I am a man, I am proud, Jesus was man and proud;

      He died fulfilling, and his soul found peace.

      I greet him friendly down the gulf of years.’

      ‘But no!’ she said. ‘There is a Spirit of Jesus

      Say what you like, there is a Spirit of Jesus.’

      So I allowed her that, changing my front

      Saying, ‘If Jesus died on Cross, He’s dead,

      In so far as Mary’s son, the prophet, died.

      But hardly was He dead,

      Than up this elemental demon sprang

      Assuming mastership of Jesus’ school

      Using his body, even, so it’s told

      Calling himself by name of Jesus Risen.

      Who was he? Some poor godling, fallen through pride

      And greed of human flesh, on evil days.

      He changed his heart and once more stood for power,

      A roaring lion in the white lamb’s fleece,

      So by a long campaign of self-abasement

      And self-effacement grown mob-strong at length

      He overturned high Heaven, now rules the world.

      Yes, he’s a powerful devil; we are his sons

      Got on she-furies of our Northern gales.

      We hate the inheritance entailed on us

      And the outlandish family coat we blazon,

      The tell-tale features also; would deny

      His fatherhood, but for that eye, that nose,

      Betraying Galilee our Father’s land.

      There’s no escape from him. Midwife Tradition

      Has knotted Jesus in our navel strings

      Never to be undone this side the grave.’

      But that was one stage worse than blasphemy.

      And when we parted, she smiled grudgingly.

      I had said too much and cut her to the quick.

      She thought, poor child, she had her choice to make

      Between God’s way and my way. And so she chose…

      This letter…But she writes of Christian love.

      What is that? It’s a most annoying habit,

      A warm blood-teasing smile, an open look,

      A recognition – thinks I to myself,

      Boy, this is fine! Love at first sight! True love!

      But then the disillusionment – by God

      She turns the same look of those clear kind eyes

      On a bootblack, on some fool behind a counter.

      She calls that, Love? But what is Love to me?

      Love; it’s a two-part game, I’d say, not merely

      The searching radiations from one eye,

      That fly about with indiscriminate force –

      Sometimes unthinking in a public place

      I stare at girls sitting sideface to me

      And wonder at their beauty, summing it up,

      Then being innocent girls (I’d never look

      At others so) they grow aware of the heat

      That pours out from my eyes; but do not see me.

      (I may be fifty feet away or more)

      They fidget in their seats, uncross their knees,

      Pull down their skirts to hide even their ankles,

      Blush furiously and gaze about, in trouble;

      Then I start guiltily, rise and walk away;

      But that’s not Love, the searching and the heat;

      Love is an act of God, akin to Faith,

      Call it the union of two prayers by Faith

      (Here we come back to prayer by a long circuit

      And back to ‘God is Love’)

      But to explain again what’s Faith, what’s prayer,

      That’s the teas
    er! much too hard for me.

      Still, these are not Christian monopolies.

      What’s Faith but power stripped of its ornaments,

      Grants, title-deeds and suchlike accidentals;

      Force won by disentangling from the mind

      All hampering ties of luxury and tradition,

      Possessions, loyalties and hobby-horses?

      Cast all these overboard, and Faith is left,

      Faith potent through its prayer to miracles,

      Whether in name of Jesus or Jim Crow.

      Prayer: Rachel seems to think the collects prayer,

      And Mother Superior, I make no doubt,

      Will teach her scores of neatly turned devotions

      Couched in diminutives and pastoral terms,

      (Lord, how I hate the literary prayer),

      Little white lambs indeed – O baa baa black sheep

      Have you any wool? – And Rachel in return

      Flushing with shame impetuously confesses,

      And holds half back, but crafty eyes are watching

      To drag all out, so Rachel has to tell

      How on the river bank one morning early

      The water was so clear, the sun so warm,

      She kissed me suddenly and was kissed by me –

      Lip kisses, that was all, and fingers clasped.

      Mother Superior then demanding further

      Will cross-examine her on how and why.

      ‘To tell it now will mortify the passion,

      Then when you make your general confession

      To Father James, your mind will have found peace.’

      (A good excuse) ‘What then were your sensations,

      The physical joy, tell me, my erring lamb!

      Tell me, I beg, but as the sin was pleasant

      So must confession of the sin be pain…’

      ‘’Tis pity she’s a whore’. Rachel told all.

      Whore, traitress to the secret rites of love,

      Publisher of the not-communicable.

      If she refused the vows? If her heart changed?

      Rachel and I? This meek ex-novice rifled

      Of her love-secrets? medals and images

      Sewn in her skirts, Birmingham images

      From the totem-factory, niched in her heart?

      No, Love is fusion of Prayer, and prayer must be

      The flash of faith, unformulated words

      Demanding an accomplishment of Love

      With noise of thunder, against circumstance,

      And Rachel forfeits there all power to love.

      Who’s this? For now the rabble have passed through,

      Going unnoticed out; Mother Superior

      Secretly with one finger at her lips,

      Re-enters, carefully locks my bedroom door,

      Now she disrobes with fingers trembling so

      They tear the fastenings – naked she steps out

      To practise with her long-past-bearing body

      The wiles of the Earthbound (Ah, the fine young man,

     


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