Men, Women and Ghosts(男人、女人和鬼魂)

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Men, Women and Ghosts

Men, Women and

Ghosts

by Amy Lowell

Men, Women and Ghosts

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

Men, Women and Ghosts

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

Men, Women and Ghosts

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.

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,

Men, Women and Ghosts

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

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

Men, Women and Ghosts

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.

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.

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.

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

Men, Women and Ghosts

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?

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 prod.

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.

Men, Women and Ghosts

The fish will wriggle free." She stopped aghast. He turned and

bowed. One arm was in a sling.

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."

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, I lost all heart

for everything." She stood, Supple and strong, beside him, and her blood

Tingled her lissom body to a glow.

XII

She quickly seized the fish and with a stone Ended its flurry, then

removed the hook, Untied the fly with well-poised fingers. Done, She

asked him where he kept his fishing-book. He pointed to a coat flung on

the ground. She searched the pockets, found a shagreen case,

Replaced the fly, noticed a golden stamp Filling the middle space. Two

letters half rubbed out were there, and round About them gay rococo

flowers wound And tossed a spray of roses to the clamp.

XIII

The Lady Eunice puzzled over these. "G. D." the young man gravely

said. "My name Is Gervase Deane. Your servant, if you please." "Oh,

Sir, indeed I know you, for your fame For exploits in the field has reached

my ears. I did not know you wounded and returned." "But just

come back, Madam. A silly prick To gain me such unearned Holiday

making. And you, it appears, Must be Sir Everard's lady. And my fears

At being caught a-trespassing were quick."

Men, Women and Ghosts

XIV

He looked so rueful that she laughed out loud. "You are forgiven, Mr.

Deane. Even more, I offer you the fishing, and am proud That you

should find it pleasant from this shore. Nobody fishes now, my husband

used To angle daily, and I too with him. He loved the spotted trout,

and pike, and dace. He even had a whim That flies my fingers tied

swiftly confused The greater fish. And he must be excused, Love

weaves odd fancies in a lonely place."

She sighed because it seemed so long ago, Those days with Everard;

unthinking took The path back to the orchard. Strolling so She walked,

and he beside her. In a nook Where a stone seat withdrew beneath low

boughs, Full-blossomed, hummed with bees, they sat them down.

She questioned him about the war, the share Her husband had, and

grown Eager by his clear answers, straight allows Her hidden hopes and

fears to speak, and rouse Her numbed love, which had slumbered

unaware.

XVI

Under the orchard trees daffodils danced And jostled, turning

sideways to the wind. A dropping cherry petal softly glanced Over her

hair, and slid away behind. At the far end through twisted cherry-trees

The old house glowed, geranium-hued, with bricks Bloomed in the

sun like roses, low and long, Gabled, and with quaint tricks Of chimneys

carved and fretted. Out of these Grey smoke was shaken, which the faint

Spring breeze Tossed into nothing. Then a thrush's song

XVII

Needled its way through sound of bees and river. The notes fell,

round and starred, between young leaves, Trilled to a spiral lilt, stopped on

a quiver. The Lady Eunice listens and believes. Gervase has many tales

of her dear Lord, His bravery, his knowledge, his charmed life. She

quite forgets who's speaking in the gladness Of being this man's wife.

Gervase is wounded, grave indeed, the word Is kindly said, but to a softer

chord She strings her voice to ask with wistful sadness,

XVIII

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Men,WomenandGhosts1Men,WomenandGhostsbyAmyLowellMen,WomenandGhosts2PrefaceThisisabookofstories.ForthatreasonIhaveexcludedallpurelylyricalpoems.Buttheword"stories"hasbeenstretchedtoitsfullestapplication.Itincludesbothnarrativepoems,properlysocalled;talesdividedintoscenes;andafewpiecesoflessobvioussto...

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Men, Women and Ghosts(男人、女人和鬼魂)

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