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This ebook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this ebook or online atwww.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this eBook.
*** This is a COPYRIGHTED Project Gutenberg eBook. Details Below. ****** Please follow the copyright guidelines in this file. ***
*** This is a COPYRIGHTED Project Gutenberg eBook. Details Below. ***
*** Please follow the copyright guidelines in this file. ***
Title: Tasting the EarthAuthor: Mona GouldRelease date: November 15, 2010 [eBook #34328]Language: English
Title: Tasting the Earth
Author: Mona Gould
Author: Mona Gould
Release date: November 15, 2010 [eBook #34328]
Language: English
*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK TASTING THE EARTH ***
Copyright (C) 1943 by The Estate of Mona Gould.
"On the food of the strong I fed, on dark strange life itself,Wisdom-giving and sombre with the unremitting love of ages.There was dank soil in my mouth,And bitter sea on my lipsIn a dark hour, tasting the Earth."
James Oppenheim
Copyright, Canada, 1943 By Mona Gould All rights reserved - no part of this book may be reproduced in any form without permission in writing from the publisher, except by a reviewer who wishes to quote brief passages in connection with a review written for inclusion in a magazine or newspaper. Printed in Canada T.H. Best Printing Co., Limited Toronto. Ont.
To Graham and John
AcknowledgementsGrateful acknowledgment is made to Alfred A. Knopf Inc.,publisher, New York, for permission to use the lines from"Tasting the Earth" by James Oppenheim, from hisSongs For the New Age (1914), and for permission to reprint to:Saturday Night, Chatelaine, Montreal C.A.A. Year Books,Canadian Forum., Gossip, Montrealer, Canadian Magazine,Woman's Illustrated (London, Eng. ), Woman's Journal (London, Eng.).
Foreword
We all of us know that the ordinary every-day man and woman, the people we brush against in street cars, the people who read the funnies - the people who are like us - are capable of the profoundest depths of feeling and the noblest aspirations. But it is only on the rarest occasions that we happen to see one of them at it, so to speak, and when we do we have a certain sense of shame at intruding on something that really should be private between him and his God.
The artist enables us to see this ordinary man and woman in the moments when they are not ordinary, without any of this sense of intrusion. I think Mona Gould, in most of the verses in this volume, has been exceptionally successful in this kind of revelation, and I think Canada needs it. A number of these verses have been published in "Saturday Night" during the term of my editorship, and I am very glad that they are now to have a more permanent resting place.
B. K. Sandwell
Contents
Colour in the Willows
"They Also Serve …"
Litany for the Lonely
This Was My Brother
"Nostalgia"
"Toujours Gai"
That Girl in Hong Kong
Image
Convoy
Answer Me!
Immorality, 1943
Cathedral
You Wrote
Blood Donor Clinic 10 a.m.
Promise
Tasting the Earth
Spring Sunday … in a Small Town
Ghost of New Year's Eve
Quiet Has Come Down
Hands
Rain … in the City
You, the Sower of Seed
Nightmare
Contact
Autumn is Unfair
Nocturne
Portrait of Father
Small Christmas Tree
Ladies at Tea
Portrait
Hill-top, Caledon
You, Being Dead
Dilemma
Night Garden
Some Quiet Day … Perhaps
Cloister
Colour In the Willows
Darling … the colour has come back, in the willows.Remember how it was, last year? Incredibly orange …Little orange willow switchesHardly bending;Remember the white shore roadAnd the blue water in the BayStill fretted with clotted snowAt the sand edge?The sky was a light, high blueAnd all the clouds were little, and frisky.And we kept making wagers about the willowsAt every curve in the road.Darling … the colour has come back in the willows;But I have no one … to bet with!
"They Also Serve …"
Nightly, still, I dress for you,In frocks of fabric and of hueYou would have liked.Silly, I know, when you are gone,To care if shoes are black or fawn;To match my lip rouge with a ring;To pin gardenias at my breast;To brush my hair till it is sleekAs carded silk … and in my eyesTo wear a look of glad surprise!Nightly, still, I dress for you -Because I know you'd want me to!
Litany For the Lonely
You're warmth and laughter …You're the "good time"!You're security …And sleeping with arms 'roundAnd no night …And the dark shut out!You're painDrowned in joy,And laughter from the heart …You're loving kindness …The look of dear acquaintanceAnd a hand to hold,Always!
This Was My Brother(For Lt.-Col. Howard McTavish, killed in action at Dieppe)
This was my brotherAt Dieppe,Quietly a heroWho gave his lifeLike a gift,Withholding nothing.
His youth … his love …His enjoyment of being alive …His future, like a bookWith half the pages still uncut -
This was my brotherAt Dieppe -The one who built me a doll houseWhen I was seven,Complete to the last small picture frame,Nothing forgotten.
He was awfully good at fixing things,At stepping into the breach when he was needed.
That's what he did at Dieppe;He was needed.And even Death must have been a little shamedAt his eagerness!
"NostAglia"
What's "nostAglia", Mums?"NostAglia … ?" Oh, you mean"Nostalgia", Son, let me see …How can I explain it to you, this "nostAglia",(As good a word for it as any!)Well … Darling …"NostAglia", is that funny pit-of-the-tummy feelingYou getGoing down in elevatorsOnly you're not in an elevator -It just comes.Everything sort of goes away from you,And you feel a little scaredAnd a lot lonely …It's like thisRemember Tippy … the little brown dog …And how we loved him;And how he ran just a little ahead of you,Just a little too fastAnd you, chasing him on your tricycle …And the curb came,And you stopped,And Tip, didn'tAnd he just lay there,And the look was gone out of his eyesAnd we tucked him away in a brown bean cartonUnder the apple treeAnd the house was awfully quiet without him,That was "nostalgia".
***
And remember when we did the Plays,And you were Wakefield in the Jalna one,And we used to prop up your lines over the basin in the bathroom,And you learned them while you brushed your teeth;And you followed me round the kitchenWhile I made peanut butter cookiesAnd took the part of RennyAt the same time …And it was pretty excitingAnd mixed up, and very wonderful …And the smell of make-up, remember that?And the keen edge of being treated like a grownup…And the first taste of applauseAnd the feeling of "power"When you nip't your cueRight on the nose;And then it was all overAnd there weren't any more rehearsals,And all the excitement was quenchedAnd school seemed uncommonly dullAnd one night you went back to the theatreTo get your little riding boots,And it was deserted and dusty.But that lovely smell of make-upStill lingered in the dressing-room;And you stood there for a minuteWith one boot in your handAnd let it just "roll" over you …The Play … the lights … the fun …And then you gave yourself a little shakeAnd picked up the other boot … and felt … well …That was "nostaglia"!
***
And then … remember the time in the Union StationAnd we'd been down to Gammie's togetherBecause Daddy was there … on Last Leave …And he'd met us at the train,And taken you to the MessAnd you'd seen the Bunk, where he slept,And played a game of Darts,And had a Coke with him in the Canteen,And gone to a MovieAnd felt very proud when we came outBecause your father looked so impressive in his uniform.And because we'd agreed there'd be no fuss,No tears … no last good-byes …Daddy had just said,"So long, Sport … I'll see you in the Funny Papers …"But for onceIt wasn't funny.And you were still holding the little metal disc in your handDaddy had stamped out for youWith your name on it.And you didn't seem to want to put it out of your handNot even in your pocket;And you looked at me across a great, black gap…And even I couldn't fix it … this time …And that was "nostalgia"!
"Toujours Gai"
For Jamie, of the R.A.F.
"He has outsoared the shadow of our night".
***
Bravely he kept his tryst with Death -Who somehow knew it would come to pass -But he tipped his cap at a rakish slant,And he gave himself a smile, in the glass.If his hand was clenched, there was none to see,If his heart was sore for the home he missed,And the eager face of his dearest loveAnd her flying hair … and the lips he'd kissed.He had made for himself, from a little phraseA shield and a buckler to save the day -And the little phrase was a bit of himself,And he laughed when he said it, - "Toujours gai!"
That Girl In Hong Kong
That girl in Hong Kong …She must have loved frivolous things, too;Collected crystal brandy glasses,Cut flowers for a white bowl …And dreamed the incredible bubbly-coloured dreamsThat all girls do.
She might have been married,Tucked children off to bed at night;Told stories to;Put candles on the table;Worn a white lace dress,Proud to be slender and desirableAnd womanly …
That girl in Hong Kong …She felt safe … and secure … and thankful for security;Maybe she chose a gay, almost boastfully red lipstickBecause it was Christmas.
How pitiful is paintOn the mouth of oneDead!
Image
You can't put it into words,This feeling of remembering.It comes up like a little mistBetween you, and your world …So that suddenly a flurry of leaves …Or pewter mugs … shining in a shop window …Can make you stand quietly …Till this ache passes over!
Convoy
Suddenly, my Darling …Out of a deep sleepI could smell the SeaAnd a salt wind blowing …And I knew that you had gone from me!
Answer Me!
Answer me thisWhat do lovers doWhen there is no more meeting?When night comes down, quietly,And the moon rises over the fields …
Even the dew on the grass must be pressed downBy the eager feet of the returning dreamers;Hand turned against hand, like two childrenComing back to a garden;Voices soft, and anxious, and blurred with their intolerable longing!
Answer me thisWhat do lovers doWhen there is no more meeting?
Immortality, 1943
Immortality …It's such a big wordI always thought it was something tremendous -Big … like a cathedral …Or the Sea …Now, I think it's littleBut very certain -
Sometimes, it's in a ring,Or a pair of wings,Or the badge off a Tanker's cap -Or a kiss -
Sometimes it's a cable …"Safe and wellAll my love."
Sometimes it's a child -How he turns his head,The shape of his hands,His laughWith the head thrown back,And joy, like a shining swordCutting the dark -
Immortality …It's what goes on,It's what marches onAfter the march is over -It's wings in the skyAfter the plane is down -
It's tears and laughterAnd Beauty … burning like a starAlive, … in the heart …Forever!
Cathedral
The square in front of Notre Dame,I fancy it must look the same;With trampled snow, and pigeons driftingFrom sky to earth; Cathedral liftingIts classic spires … aloof … austere …It must be like it was last year.
Remember the tall Franciscan monkWith the blowing beard, that was red as flame …And his earth-brown robes, and his sandaled feet …Remember? (You called me a darling name!)
Remember … I borrowed your handkerchiefTo tie on my head … that we might go in?It was quiet, and dark - and warm and stillWith the whisper of "Aves", murmuring.
And we stood at the shrine of Sacre CoeurTo light a candle against the day,Too terribly soon … when a boat would sail …And you held my hand … and forgot to pray.
And suddenly-everything seemed so dear …So precious, so lovely, so brief, and fair,The whispered "Aves" … the little hearts …The candle shine on your darling hair.
The square in front of Notre Dame …I fancy it must look the same.Only … one candle less, this year,At Sacre Coeur, my dear … my dear!
You Wrote
You wrote:"The Abbey pillars are worn smooth.Hundreds of shoulders leaned against their strength,Age after age,To set their smoothness, there .."
And they shall lean againBecause of lads like you,Who wear their wingsAnd find these things as wonderfulAs they had seemedOn printed pages head in nursery days!
For busts … and plaques … and effigies …And figures carved in stone …Tremendous tombs of Kings …Are not cathedral furniture.
Here stand the dreams of menArticulate in stone.Honour made manifest;The shadow of the GrailFalls like a silver whisper in this place.
You wrote:"The Abbey pillars are worn smooth …"And I could see the valour in your face!
Blood Donor Clinic 10 a.m.
They file through the door,They include men who look like ex-football players,Big men, little men,Men who have climbed down off coal trucks,Bond salesmen, men in uniform,Sailors on leave from minesweepers,Whole men,And men who have lost an arm or a leg in the last war,Who cannot fight in this one,Who remember what transfusions mean.Blind men have comeWho make little jokesAbout the "pretty nurse".It takes a few minutes;A few minutes stretched comfortably out on a cotWith your heart-beats measuringDrop by drop the gift you giveTo keep some soul alive.It takes a few minutes out of a single dayTo make you one of the vast armyBack of the fighting army.
It takes a few minutesBut because of that few minutesSoldiers and sailors and flyersAre going to come back after this warWho couldn't come backWithout that "gift".
It means mothers and children,Terribly hurt when bombs rained down,Are going to live to forget those anxious days,And laugh again, and breathe the air of quiet England.
It means that you have given somethingMoney couldn't buy.The "quality of mercy", Shakespeare said.
It takes a few minutesBut it lets you in on a miracle!
Promise
We used to sayOh, just in fun,That when the time cameWe would runAway together just the two …
And live like all good Pixies doUnder a toadstool.
You laughedAnd said we'd get quite tipsyOn rain cocktails;And ipsy-dipsyWe'd wander here … and wander there,And I, with flowers in my hair.
You promised,When you went awayYou'd come for me; and on that dayWe'd seek the kindly, farthest starWhere all the other lovers are.
You said:"Just Death … can keep me from… "Darling … I know you meant to come!
Tasting the Earth
And the wind went over the top of the birch treesLike a great hand,Stirring their feathery leaves and weaving violet shadowsOn their shining surface.
Lying flat on the young grassStretched out very tallAnd feeling wonderfully magnificent,I listened to my own heart beating.
"Darling … darling," said my heart,Pressed against the warm earth,"Love is beautiful, and love will die…"But can it be so terrible a thingFor love to sleep in this velvet earth?I pressed my face against the fallen leavesAnd felt the sun tangled in my blowing hair,And felt the sun burning down into my very bones,And knew suddenly, with a terrible aching certaintyThat it was so.
"Love is beautiful, and love will die …"Said my heart, and even the dark earthWas little comfort!
Spring Sunday … In a Small Town
To-day they're having Church Parade;The Boy Scouts and the Girl Guides,The Cubs and the Brownies,Are all out, full force.The uncertain, fumbling band begins a staggering marchAnd off they go, curling in a snaky lineRound the corner from the Market Square,Under the old town clock.All the people in townSeem to have hurried down to one spotTo see their "young hopefuls" swinging past.They don't march any too well, either,But that isn't noticed.There they go up the steps of the old gray churchAnd in at the door.
There isn't any need for tears pushing up to the surfaceBut they do!The peace of it!The ironic, terrible sense of security,The threat under the dream!Let the band play,Let the children march,Let the parents weep!
Ghost of New Year's Eve
A dear ghost, a young ghostWalks this night,Clad not in holy mailRobed not in white.
Nothing like a haloRound his brown head,Laughter on his young lips,Whimsical and red.
Wearing old flannel slacks, jacket sleeve torn,"Sneakers" on his swift feet,Scuffed and well-worn.
A dear ghost, a young ghost,Sketch-book in hand,Pockets full of charcoal …Militant you stand,
Lip caught between teethBeautiful and white,Eyes full of shining dreamsOn this night.
A dear ghost, a young ghostWalks this eve,If he finds you paintableHe will touch your sleeve,
Saying, as the wind would,"Please stand still…"Sketching you and vanishingOver some hill!
Quiet Has Come Down (Owen Sound)
Quiet has come down over this little villageAs if a Nun, saying her beadsHad asked for peaceAnd it been granted.
A white sort of quiet,Having to do with the snowAnd the little necklace of lights on the Main Street,And the white prows of the fleet in the harbour,Silent, and folded in, like giant gulls.
Almost the whiteness of this quietIs too beautiful to be borne.Were it not for the ebony of the branches,And the dark arm of a church spireAnd your black hair like a dark bird flying!
Hands
Hands have a wayOf betraying things.I found this outIn a small, strange way;You touched my faceThe other day!
Rain … In the City
Rain…Even in the cityIt has the smell of the country.Wet grasses … thorny hedges,And chestnuts shaking down their polished brownness.And ghosts of apple trees.I swear they haunt the city streetsAnd fling their sweetness over formal lawnsAnd stiff, uncompromising dahlia beds!
Just let the drops come stinging downAgainst your eyelids;False tears that tangle in your lashes,Making blurs of all the lamp-post lightsUntil they swim like harbour lampsUp through the larkspur evening.
Feel it against your shins,The stinging slanting rainThat laces all the guttersWith its swathes of glittering brightness …
Feel it against your face …And think of sudden gusty showers,A little horse's gleaming neck and flanks,The smell of rain on leather;The smell of rain on saddle soap;And the pearly glitter of flying hoofsBound for the stable.
Rain…Even in the cityIt has the smell of the country!
You, the Sower of Seed
You, the sower of seedIn this fertile fieldThat is my body,Tenderly shall I care for it,Guard it from heat and coldAnd sudden change.
Only the softest sun shall shine on itWrap't in careful quietnessThis white field shall sleep.
Dream I, in arrowy adorationOf the garnering-in time.Your seed … sown in the fieldThat is my body,Quickening to lifeIn the secret placesUnder my heart.And whatever the yieldI shall deem it beautiful,Sprung from your seed.
Nightmare
"Mother!" he cried out to me, in the night.And I knew that he had been dreaming.Some dark and troubling shadowHad pressed against him fearfully.And I turned him in his little bedAnd he drifted re-assured,Into quiet sleep.But who are we to turn toIn the long nightWhen the black wings beat?
Contact
What is this mysterious crying flame,This urge, deeper than the curve in the young flesh;The round enchanting turn of the smooth wrist;The throat, white as the under side of a poplar leafAnd just as fair?
What is this hunger … holy and terrible,Spawned in the marrow of the white bones?A hunger that cannot be drowned in surf breaking on a white beach;Or lost, in the wind coursing through the lane of trees in the forest.
What is the spirit to doChained as she isLike hooded falcon to the wrist,When she can neither rise, nor fly,Nor sing her song in the darkness?
Autumn Is Unfair
Autumn is unfairTo stir again, in lash of wood smoke,Scent of bitter berriesThe ashes of desire.To stir and prod with gnarled unfriendly fingersThe leaves piled high about the tender roots,Disturbing the sleeping blossoms.
(Oh to be free of this damaging enchantmentOf russet leaves and scarlet thorny hedges!)
Even to walk quite swiftly in the eveningsDown fog-filled streetsPressing the cool to your lips,Is not enough;
O anodyne of snow,Swift-falling, white, delivering angel,Or rain … or wind … or any single thingTo break this tenuous leash.
To let the heart sleepLightly, as the brown tulip bulbs …To let the heart sleep!
Nocturne
When lovers lieIn summer grassAnd watch the cloud shipsAs they pass,Love is a blendOf pain and bliss …Somewhere a shadow,Dark and tall,Across the heart-beatSeems to fallDenying joy …
This thing will go,It will not stayWhen summer goesAnd you're away …
So runs the thread of darkling song,And yet - within each other's eyesThey drown this knowledge; and disguiseThe shadowy blight.So … each to each they turn and say"We have each other anyway!"
Portrait of Father
He died, much as he lived,Not making any fussAbout it. Accepting all we didQuietly, and with a touch; of humour,As if to say, "Beloveds, if this helps you,But I go … anyway!"
Withdrawn, perceptibly withdrawn,He waged his little struggle,Agreeable to all the final desperate triesScience affords. He drifted outFarther away. You couldn't even reach himWith your hand, finally.He'd made his peace with Death.Just for a second, up from theSargasso Sea of kindly opiatesHe came … living and sweet and somehow reassuring,To name you, with his final stumbling breath!
Small Christmas Tree (For F. G.)
Stand very straight, small Christmas tree!Put on your tallest dignity,Wear your tinsel bright and bravely,Carry your candles like holy things.In the heart of a child you representBeauty and light and sacrament;Your topmost star to him outshines the sun,Your branches every oneAre precious.
Stand very straight, small Christmas tree!You were chosen to grace a feast,You were chosen to share this day.Holly for merriment,Holly for joy.And you to bring to a little boyFabulous dreams.
Stand very straight, small Christmas tree!Looking with love on my small son's face,Sweet in your light,I, this night, hear carols.Know for certain that carols ring,Know for certain that angels sing;Stand very straight, small Christmas tree!
Ladies at Tea
Ladies at teaFrighten me!
The tea is amber,The ices lush;But I always feelThat I'm swallowing plushWhen the reparteeBecomes sharp and prickly;I smile and nodAnd agree too quickly;And squirm for the victimsSlaughtered lightly;And wish for a sign-boardTo signal brightlyThese welcoming wordsTo allay my fear:"Chicken-hearted,Exit, here!"
Ladies at teaFrighten me!
Portrait
You walked in your drawing-room,Your gown rustling like autumn leaves;Its heavy folds of delicate silkThe colour of apricots.You might have been the ghost of a great lady,Your chin held rather high for one so small;Or you might have been a frail fantastic figurineIn cloisonné, that had stepped down for a momentFrom a Louis Quinze table.Or then again, you might have been a princessWho had lived most of her lifeIn a Fairy Tale for children.Then you would have worn a little cap of pearls,And your small enchanted handsWould have been heavy with emeralds.
You walked in your drawing-roomIn your gown of apricot satin,And if you had disappeared into a mirror,Or stepped back into a picture frame,I could have believed in you!
Hill-top, Caledon
No, nor the green hills of IrelandCouldn't be lovelier!Beautiful, are the Caledon hills;Green, like moss is green,And gracious,And ever-rolling.
And the little treesThat march down the sides of the hillsAre like treesCut from green blotting-paper.They stand very straight,And not very tall,And their ranks are beautifully un-thinned.
And the hordes of silly sheepCrying, "Baa Baa"Out of their curious black faces;And the Scottish cattle with their great horns;And the chestnut-and-black horsesLeaning into the wind on the very hill-top;All these are part of Caledon.
Coming out of the little ski cabin,Under the first few starsYou will say:"No; nor the green hills of Ireland Couldn't be lovelier!"
You Being Dead (For J. R. T.)
You, being dead, are not awareThat brittle berries strew the ground,And how the wind, an unleashed houndProwls through the wood.
It must be very still and deepWhere you have gone; your gentle sleepMust be a lovely dreamless thing.No horns of daybreak reach your rest,No muffled drums of midnight breastYour dim retreat … and well I knowYou would not stir, beneath the snow.
And yet the first lush rain of SpringMust speak to you; must dance and singAcross your heart, though it be still.The scent of hyacinth must fillThe very earth, the birth of grassBe like the feet of fauns who passIn mocking masque among the trees.
Though you should walk elysian fieldsI somehow know, that even thereYou still must smell the apple trees …Who found the spring so brief and fair!
Dilemma
You know,If you were only a bookI'd know what to do about you!I'd read you … and remember you …And tuck you away on my book-shelves.
But since you are a bitter sort of magicThat twists me like a silly skeinTo fit your latest picture of meWhat am I to do about you?
Ah…And even if you were a bookI should love you very dearly,And carry you about with meIn my coat pocket,Always!
Night Garden
Here is a silver starCaught in the meshes of the moon.It matters not.Soon … soon … across the greeny darkness of the garden,Still and sweet,I shall hear in the mist of the eveningYour feetYou are coming to me!The garden is drowned in a dream.Only my heart is awake.Hurry … hurry, beloved …Lest it quiver, and break!
Some Quiet Day … Perhaps
Some quiet day, perhaps, when I am dead,And this loud world is but a whispered echoThrough the dark, cool earth that spreads above my head,I shall forget that I have ever known you.Your kisses shall become inconsequentAs flowers and grass that grow above my grave,Our moments shared shall crumble down to dust,The ring upon my finger turn to rust.There shall be nothing to remind me, then,I shall know peace, unstirred by pain or song,Turning my face to sleep, as children do,Never to start awake and cry your name,Seeking your arms to shelter me from fearAs I do now … this night … my very Dear!
Cloister
The young priestStood holding a small book in his hands,Under a treeNewly-stripped of its leafage.He stood very still …Remote,The wind whipping his long robesInto swirling darkness.There behind cloistered wallsThe war was unreal,A distant dragonWhose fiery breathWas legend.Just for a minuteThe world stood stillImprisoned in the pagesOf a small book.There was healing in the sight,The young priestReading words set down many centuries ago.Oh soon, soon, let there be peaceOver the whole worldAnd the young menComing back to their books!