To a Solitary Disciple
Rather notice, mon cher,
that the moon is
tilted above
the point of the steeple
than that its color
is shell-pink.
Rather observe
that it is early morning
than that the sky
is smooth
as a turquoise.
[ . . . ]
William Carlos Williams' poem "To a Solitary Disciple" was published in the 1916 Others anthology. To read this poem in full in a digitized version of this publication, follow the link below:
Ecstasy
I saw a frieze on whitest marble drawn
Of boys who sought for shells along the shore,
Their white feet shedding pallor in the sea,
The shallow sea, the spring-time sea of green
That faintly creamed against the cold, smooth
pebbles.
The air was thin, their limbs were delicate,
The wind had graven their small eager hands
To feel the forests and the dark nights of Asia
Behind the purple bloom of the horizon,
Where sails would float and slowly melt away.
Their naked, pure, and grave, unbroken silence
Filled the soft air as gleaming, limpid water
Fills a spring sky those days when rain is lying
In shattered bright pools on the wind-dried roads,
And their sweet bodies were wind-purified.
One held a shell unto his shell-like ear
And there was music carven in his face,
His eyes half-closed, his lips just breaking open
To catch the lulling, mazy, coralline roar
Of numberless caverns filled with singing seas.
And all of them were hearkening as to singing
Of far-off voices thin and delicate,
Voices too fine for any mortal wind
To blow into the whorls of mortal ears
And yet those sounds flowed from their grave,
sweet faces.
And as I looked I heard that delicate music,
Turner And I became as grave, as calm, as still
As those carved boys. I stood upon that shore,
I felt the cool sea dream around my feet,
My eyes were staring at the far horizon:
And the wind came and purified my limbs,
And the stars came and set within my eyes,
And snowy clouds rested upon my shoulders,
And the blue sky shimmered deep within me,
And I sang like a carven pipe of music.
W.J. Turner's poem "Ecstasy" was published in Georgian Poetry, 1916-1917. To read this poem in a digitized copy of this publication, follow the links below:
Project Gutenberg (HTML version)
Priapus
Keeper-of-Orchards
I saw the first pear
As it fell.
The honey-seeking, golden-banded,
The yellow swarm
Was not more fleet than I,
(Spare us from loveliness!)
[ . . . ]
H.D.'s poem "Priapus: Keeper-of-Orchards" was published in the 1914 imagist anthology, Des Imagistes. To read this poem in full in a digitized copy of this publication, follow the links below:
The Blue Mountain Project (The Glebe)
The Modernist Journals Project (The Glebe)
The Modernist Journals Project (Publisher: Albert and Charles Boni, NY)
The Modernist Journals Project (Publisher: The Poetry Bookshop, London)
Laughing Lions Will come
The prophet from his desert cave
Listens to the sound of water
Lapping with tongues the fringes of the sand.
Young flowers open for the bees;
A roadway for the yellow sun
Climbs from the hills into the fallow sea.
The scented bells hold golden sound;
And the strong lion drinks the salted waves,
Cooling his mane within the sudden foam.
The bee skirts tremblingly the shining dew
Looking for honey in the golden dells,
While the lion shakes the loud hills again.
This early morning there may lie some gold
Forgotten when the light was fled;
To-day the great beams may shine
On opened caves where run swift rivers,
Shooting their arrows at the swordless sea,
And blind to the sun whose shining armour
Shows in the sky among the clouds he charges—
Driving them across a wind-walled field
Into the shelter of the towering hills.
Honey may be biding in the waking flowers;
The man in armour hides behind the gold,
The strongest waves, far off, are snow.
[ . . . ]
Sacheverell Sitwell's poem "Laughing Lions Will Come" was published in the fifth "cycle" of Wheels in 1920. To read this poem in full in a digitized version of this publication, follow the links below:
At the Door of the House
A thousand women's eyes
Riveted to the unrealisable
Scatter the wash-stand of the card-teller
Defiled marble of Carrara
On which she spreads
Color-picture maps of destiny
In the comer
Of an incondusive bed-room
"Impassioned
Doubly impassioned
Sad
You see these three cards
But here is the double Victory
And there is an elderly lady
Ill in whom you are concerned
This is the Devil
And these two skeletons
Are mortifications
You are going to make a journey
[ . . . ]
Mina Loy's poem "At the Door of the House" was published in the 1917 Others anthology. To read this poem in full in a digitized version of this publication, follow the links below:
The Old Ships
I have seen old ships sail like swans asleep
Beyond the village which men still call Tyre,
With leaden age o'ercargoed, dipping deep
For Famagusta and the hidden sun
That rings black Cyprus with a lake of fire;
And all those ships were certainly so old—
Who knows how oft with squat and noisy gun,
Questing brown slaves or Syrian oranges,
The pirate Genoese
Hell-raked them till they rolled
Blood, water, fruit and corpses up the hold.
But now through friendly seas they softly run,
Painted the mid-sea blue or shore-sea green.
Still patterned with the vine and grapes in gold.
But I have seen
Pointing her shapely shadows from the dawn
And image tumbled on a rose-swept bay
A drowsy ship of some yet older day;
And, wonder's breath indrawn,
Thought I—who knows—who knows—but in that
same
(Fished up beyond Aeaea, patched up new
—Stern painted brighter blue—)
That talkative, bald-headed seaman came
(Twelve patient comrades sweating at the oar)
From Troy's doom-crimson shore.
And with great lies about his wooden horse
Set the crew laughing, and forgot his course.
It was so old a ship—who knows, who knows?
—And yet so beautiful, I watched in vain
To see the mast burst open with a rose,
And the whole deck put on its leaves again.
James Elroy Flecker's poem "The Old Ships" was published in Georgian Poetry, 1913-1915. To read this poem in a digitized version of this publication, follow the links below:
Fragment
. . . That night I loved you
in the candlelight.
Your golden hair
strewed the sweet whiteness of the pillows
and the counterpane.
Ο the darkness of the corners,
the warm air, and the stars
framed in the casement of the ships' lights!
[ . . . ]
F.S. Flint's poem fragment ". . . That night I loved you" was published in the 1915 Some Imagist Poets anthology. To read this poem in full in a digitized version of this publication, follow the links below:
Theatre of Varieties
Circle on circle the hanging gardens descend,
Slope from the upper darkness, each flower face
Open, turned to the light and laughter and life
Trembling heat, quicken and awake the air.
Flutes and crying of strings assail the sense—
Music, the revelation and marvellous lie;
What is, what is not, truth and falsehood,
Swim and mingle together.
On the bright trestles tumblers, tamers of beasts,
Dancers and clowns affirm their fury of life,
And in a thousand minds beget a thousand
Hallucinations, dreams of beauty, nightmares.
"The World-renowned Van Hogen Mogen in
The Master Mystery of Modern Times. . . . "
He talks, he talks; more powerfully than music
His quick words hammer on the minds of men.
"Observe this hat, Ladies and gentlemen;
Empty, observe, empty as the universe
Before the Head for which this Hat is made
Was, or could think. Empty—observe, observe. . . .'
The rabbit kicks; a bunch of paper flowers
Blossoms in the limelight; paper tape unrolls,
Endless, a clue. "Ladies and gentlemen . . . ."
Sharp, sharp on malleable minds his words
Hammer. The little Indian boy
Enters the basket. Bright, an Ethiop's sword
Transfixes it and bleeding is withdrawn.
Horror, like a magnet, draws the watching crowds
Toward the scene of massacre. The walls
Bend forward to the revealing light,
And the pale faces are a thousand gargoyles
Thrust out, spouting the ichor of their souls.
"Ladies and gentlemen," the great Van Hogen Mogen
Smiles and is kind. A puddle of dark blood
Creeps slowly out. " The irremediable
Has ceased to be."
Empty of all but blood the basket gapes.
" Arise! " he calls and blows his horn. " Arise! "
[ . . . ]
Aldous Huxley's poem "Theatre of Varieties" was published in 1920 in the fifth "cycle" of the Wheels anthologies. To read this poem in full in a digitized version of this publication, follow the links below:
Keller Gegen Dom
Witness, would you—
one more young man,
in the evening of his love
hurrying to confession,—
steps down a gutter
crosses a street,
goes in at a doorway,
[ . . . ]
William Carlos Williams' poem "Keller Gegen Dom" was published in the 1917 Others anthology. To read this poem in full in a digitized version of this publication, follow the links below:
The Patchwork Bonnet
Across the room my silent love I throw
Where you sit sewing in bed by candlelight,
Your young stern profile and industrious fingers
Displayed against the blind in a shadow-show,
To Dinda's grave delight.
The needle dips and pokes, the cheerful thread
Runs after, follow-my-leader down the seam:
The patchwork pieces cry for joy together,
O soon to sit as a crown on Dinda's head,
Fulfilment of their dream.
[ . . . ]
Robert Grave's poem "The Patchwork Bonnet" was published in Georgian Poetry , 1920-1922. To read this poem in full in a digitized version of this publication, follow the link below: