Complete Poems 3 (Robert Graves Programme)

  Julia, leaning on her window sill.

  ‘I love you still,’

  She said, ‘O love me still!’

  I answered: Julia, do you love me best?’

  ‘What of this breast,’

  She mourned, ‘this flowery breast?’

  Then a wild sobbing spread from door to door,

  And every floor

  Cried shame on every floor,

  As she unlaced her bosom to disclose

  Each breast a rose,

  A white and cankered rose.

  SPOILS

  When all is over and you march for home,

  The spoils of war are easily disposed of:

  Standards, weapons of combat, helmets, drums

  May decorate a staircase or a study,

  While lesser gleanings of the battlefield –

  Coins, watches, wedding-rings, gold teeth and such –

  Are sold anonymously for solid cash.

  The spoils of love present a different case,

  When all is over and you march for home:

  That lock of hair, these letters and the portrait

  May not be publicly displayed; nor sold;

  Nor burned; nor returned (the heart being obstinate) –

  Yet never dare entrust them to a safe

  For fear they burn a hole through two-foot steel.

  From The Crowning Privilege

  (1955)

  THE CLEARING

  Above this bramble-overarched long lane

  Where an autochthonous owl flits to and fro

  In silence,

  Above these tangled trees – their roots encumbered

  By strawberries, mushrooms, pignuts, flowers’ and weeds’

  Exuberance –

  The planetary powers gravely observe

  With what dumb patience

  You stand at twilight in despair of love,

  Though the twigs crackling under a light foot

  Declare her immanence.

  THE THREE PEBBLES

  (In thirty of these burials, the black deposit of fragmentized pots contained a small white quartz pebble associated with two pieces of alien ware, one red porphyry, the other a greenish stone, probably porphyry also. Their presence was clearly intentional. – Proceedings of the Cumberland and Westmorland Archaeological Society, New Series, vol. xiv.)

  Is red the ghost of green? and green, of red?

  And white, the impartial light upon them shed?

  And I, my own twin warring against me?

  Then, woman, take two jewels of porphyry,

  Well matched in weight, one green, one angry red:

  To light them with yourself, a pure moon-crystal,

  And lay them on my bier when I am dead.

  POSSIBLY

  Possibly is not a monosyllable;

  Then answer me

  At once if possible

  Monosyllabically,

  No will be good, Yes even better

  Though longer by one letter.

  Possibly is not a monosyllable,

  And my heart flies shut

  At the warning rumble

  Of a suspended But…

  O love, be brief and exact

  In confession of simple fact.

  END OF THE WORLD

  When, at a sign, the Heavenly vault entire

  Founders and your accustomed world of men

  Drops through the fundament – too vast a crash

  To register as sound – and you plunge with it,

  Trundling, head over heels, in dark confusion

  Of trees, churches, elephants, railway trains,

  And the cascading seven seas:

  It cannot signify how deep you fall

  From everything to nothing. Nothingness

  Cushions disaster, and this much is sure:

  A buoyant couch will bear you up at last,

  Aloof, alone – but for the succuba.

  TO A PEBBLE IN MY SHOE

  I cannot pity you,

  Poor pebble in my shoe,

  Now that the heel is sore;

  You planned to be a rock

  And a stumbling block,

  Or was it perhaps more?

  But now be grateful if

  You vault over the cliff,

  Shaken from my shoe;

  Where lapidary tides

  May scour your little sides

  And even polish you.

  THE TENANTS

  Pictures and books went off ahead this morning:

  The furniture is sold (and tells you so);

  Both trunks are packed, and seven suit-cases;

  A cat glides petulantly to and fro,

  Afraid to leave us.

  Now massive walls and stairs, for so long certain,

  Retreat and fade like a mirage at sea;

  Your room and mine lose their established meanings –

  By dawn tomorrow let them cease to be

  Or to concern us!

  We faced a scowl from window, door and fireplace,

  Even in the kitchen, when we first were here;

  It cost us years of kindness to placate them.

  But now each scowl resolves into a leer

  With which to speed us.

  How dared we struggle with a house of phantoms,

  Soaked in ill luck? And when we go away,

  Confess, can you and I be certain whether

  The ghost of our unhappiness will stay

  Or follow with us?

  MY MORAL FORCES

  My moral forces, always dissipated

  If I condone the least

  Fault that I should have hated

  In (say)

  Politician, prostitute, or priest,

  Appear fanatical to a degree

  If ever I dispute

  Claims of integrity

  Advanced (say)

  By politician, priest, or prostitute.

  But though your prostitute, priest, or politician

  Be good or bad

  As such, I waive the ambition

  To curl (say)

  Chameleon-like on a Scots tartan plaid.

  INTERVIEW

  Sixty bound books, an entire bookcase full,

  All honest prose, without one duplicate.

  Why written? Answer: for my self-support –

  I was too weak to dig, too proud to beg.

  Worth reading? Answer: this array of titles

  Argues a faithful public following.

  Will I not add to the above statement,

  Touching (however lightly) on my verse?

  Answer: this question makes me look a fool,

  As who breeds dogs because he loves a cat.

  From 5 Pens in Hand

  (1958)

  THE FACE IN THE MIRROR

  Grey haunted eyes, absent-mindedly glaring

  From wide, uneven orbits; one brow drooping

  Somewhat over the eye

  Because of a missile fragment still inhering,

  Skin deep, as a foolish record of old-world fighting.

  Crookedly broken nose – low tackling caused it;

  Cheeks, furrowed; coarse grey hair, flying frenetic;

  Forehead, wrinkled and high;

  Jowls, prominent; ears, large; jaw, pugilistic;

  Teeth, few; lips, full and ruddy; mouth, ascetic.

  I pause with razor poised, scowling derision

  At the mirrored man whose beard needs my attention,

  And once more ask him why

  He still stands ready, with a boy’s presumption,

  To court the queen in her high silk pavilion.

  FORBIDDEN WORDS

  There are some words carry a curse with them:

  Smooth-trodden, abstract, slippery vocables.

  They beckon like a path of stepping stones;

  But lift them up and watch what writhes or scurries!

  Concepts barred from the close language of love –

  Darling, you use no single word
of the list,

  Unless ironically in truth’s defence

  To volley it back against the abstractionist

  Which is among your several holds on my heart;

  For you are no uninstructed child of Nature,

  But passed in schools and attained the laurel wreath:

  Only to trample it on Apollo’s floor.

  SONG FOR NEW YEAR’S EVE

  Chill moonlight flooding from chill sky

  Has drowned the embers’ glow.

  Your pale hands glitter; you and I

  Out in the fields must go,

  Where cat-ice glazes every rut

  And firs with snow are laced,

  Where wealth of bramble, crab and nut

  Lies tumbled into waste.

  The owlets raise a lovely din,

  The fox has his desire,

  And we shall welcome New Year in

  With frost instead of fire.

  ALEXANDER AND QUEEN JANET

  On Janet come so late

  To their banquet of state

  The angels nobly smile;

  But Alexander thrusts away his plate.

  ‘Janet, where have you been?

  Janet, what have you seen?

  Your lover is abashed:

  For want of you we have sat down thirteen.’

  ‘I have nowhere been,

  And nothing have I seen.

  Were it not for Alexander

  You had no reason to sit down thirteen.’

  Sweet wine for Janet now,

  Fresh costards from the bough

  Of Paradise, white bread

  Which they must force between her lips somehow.

  ‘I could not wish,’ says she,

  ‘For prettier company,

  Angels of light, than yours,

  Yet crystal cups and dishes are not for me.

  ‘Though Alexander dine

  On Heaven’s own bread and wine,

  And Paradisal fruit,

  Such delicacies are not for me or mine.

  ‘Do you approve the grace

  Of my form or my face?

  It springs from earth,’ says Janet,

  ‘And must be welcomed in a greener place.’

  At this the angels hide

  Their proud heads, mortified;

  Being deep in love with Janet

  And jealous, too, for Alexander’s pride.

  Queen Janet softly goes

  Treading on her tip toes

  To the bright table head;

  She lays before her man a damask rose.

  ‘Is it still your desire

  To shiver at my fire?

  Then come now, Alexander,

  Or stay and be a monk, or else a friar.’

  ‘My lambkin, my sweet,

  I have dined on angels’ meat,

  And in you I had trusted

  To attend their call and make my joy complete.’

  ‘Do you come? Do you stay?

  Alexander, say!

  For if you will not come

  This gift rose I must surely snatch away.’

  ‘Janet, how can I come?

  Eat only a crumb

  Of bread, essay this wine!

  In God’s name sit beside me; or be dumb.’

  Her back Janet turns,

  Dumbly she spurns

  The red rose with her shoe;

  But in each cheek another red rose burns.

  The twelve angels, alas,

  Are brought to a sad pass:

  Their lucent plumage pales,

  Their glittering sapphire eyes go dull as glass.

  Now Alexander’s soul

  Flies up from the brain hole,

  To circle like a bat

  Above his body threshing past control.

  It was Queen Janet’s power

  Turned the sweet wine sour,

  Shrivelled the apples’ bloom,

  And the bread crumbled into dusty flour.

  THE CORAL POOL

  It was a hippocamp addressed her darling,

  Perched on the coral branches of a pool

  Where light reflected back from violet moss

  And fishes veered above in a tight school:

  ‘Daughter, no sea is deep enough for drowning;

  Therefore let none seem broad enough for you,

  My foal, my fledgeling bird, my dragon-imp,

  Or understand a tithe of what you do.

  ‘To wanton fish never divulge your secret,

  But only to our mistress of the tides

  Whose handy-men are octopus and crab,

  At whose white heel the amorous turtle glides.’

  GRATITUDE FOR A NIGHTMARE

  His appearances are incalculable,

  His strength terrible,

  I do not know his name.

  Huddling pensive for weeks on end, he

  Gives only random hints of life, such as

  Strokes of uncomfortable coincidence.

  To eat heartily, dress warmly, lie snugly

  And earn respect as a leading citizen

  Granted long credit at all shops and inns –

  How dangerous! I had feared this shag demon

  Would not conform with my conformity

  And in some leaner belly make his lair.

  But now in dream he suddenly bestrides me….

  ‘All’s well,’ I groan, and fumble for a light,

  Brow bathed in sweat, heart pounding.

  FRIDAY NIGHT

  Love, the sole Goddess fit for swearing by,

  Concedes us graciously the little lie:

  The white lie, the half-lie, the lie corrective

  Without which love’s exchange might prove defective,

  Confirming hazardous relationships

  By kindly maquillage of Truth’s pale lips.

  This little lie was first told, so they say,

  On the sixth day (Love’s planetary day)

  When, meeting her full-bosomed and half dressed,

  Jove roared out suddenly: ‘Hell take the rest!

  Six hard days of Creation are enough’ –

  And clasped her to him, meeting no rebuff.

  Next day he rested, and she rested too.

  The busy little lie between them flew:

  ‘If this be not perfection,’ Love would sigh,

  ‘Perfection is a great, black, thumping lie….’

  Endearments, kisses, grunts, and whispered oaths;

  But were her thoughts on breakfast, or on clothes?

  THE NAKED AND THE NUDE

  For me, the naked and the nude

  (By lexicographers construed

  As synonyms that should express

  The same deficiency of dress

  Or shelter) stand as wide apart

  As love from lies, or truth from art.

  Lovers without reproach will gaze

  On bodies naked and ablaze;

  The Hippocratic eye will see

  In nakedness, anatomy;

  And naked shines the Goddess when

  She mounts her lion among men.

  The nude are bold, the nude are sly

  To hold each treasonable eye.

  While draping by a showman’s trick

  Their dishabille in rhetoric,

  They grin a mock-religious grin

  Of scorn at those of naked skin.

  The naked, therefore, who compete

  Against the nude may know defeat;

  Yet when they both together tread

  The briary pastures of the dead,

  By Gorgons with long whips pursued,

  How naked go the sometime nude!

  WOMAN AND TREE

  To love one woman, or to sit

  Always beneath the same tall tree,

  Argues a certain lack of wit

  Two steps from imbecility.

  A poet, therefore, sworn to feed

  On every food the senses know,

  Will claim the inexorable need
br />   To be Don Juan Tenorio.

  Yet if, miraculously enough,

  (And why set miracles apart?)

  Woman and tree prove of a stuff

  Wholly to glamour his wild heart?

  And if such visions from the void

  As shone in fever there, or there,

  Assemble, hold and are enjoyed

  On climbing one familiar stair…?

  To change and chance he took a vow,

  As he thought fitting. None the less,

  What of a phoenix on the bough,

  Or a sole woman’s fatefulness?

  DESTRUCTION OF EVIDENCE

  You neigh and flaunt your coat of sorrel-red,

  O long-winged Pegasus sprung from my head,

  Walking the lawn so lively and complete

  That, like a wolf, my after-birth I eat –

  Must he be told, the astonished passer-by,

  I did not draw you down from a clear sky?

  THE SECOND-FATED

  My stutter, my cough, my unfinished sentences,

  Denote an inveterate physical reluctance

  To use the metaphysical idiom.

  Forgive me: what I am saying is, perhaps this: –

  Your accepted universe, by Jove’s naked hand

  Or Esmun’s, or Odomankoma’s, or Marduk’s –

  Choose which name jibes – formed scientifically

  From whatever there was before Time was,

  And begging the question of perfect consequence,

  May satisfy the general run of men

  (If ‘run’ be an apt term for patent paralytics)

  That blueprints destine all they suffer here,

  But does not satisfy certain few else.

  Fortune enrolled me among the second-fated

  Who have read their own obituaries in The Times,

  Have heard ‘Where, death, thy sting? Where, grave, thy victory?’

  Intoned with unction over their still clay,

  Have seen two parallel red-ink lines drawn

  Under their manic-depressive bank accounts,

  And are therefore strictly forbidden to walk in grave-yards

  Lest they scandalize the sexton and his bride.

  We, to be plain with you, taking advantage

  Of a brief demise, visited first the Pit,

  A library of shades, completed characters;

  And next the silver-bright Hyperborean Queendom,

  Basking under the sceptre of Guess Whom?