The Project Gutenberg eBook ofThe wooden Pegasus

The Project Gutenberg eBook ofThe wooden PegasusThis 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.Title: The wooden PegasusAuthor: Edith SitwellRelease date: July 5, 2020 [eBook #62560]Most recently updated: October 18, 2024Language: EnglishCredits: Produced by Charlene Taylor, Chuck Greif and the OnlineDistributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net (Thisfile was produced from images generously made availableby The Internet Archive/American Libraries.)*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE WOODEN PEGASUS ***

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.

Title: The wooden PegasusAuthor: Edith SitwellRelease date: July 5, 2020 [eBook #62560]Most recently updated: October 18, 2024Language: EnglishCredits: Produced by Charlene Taylor, Chuck Greif and the OnlineDistributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net (Thisfile was produced from images generously made availableby The Internet Archive/American Libraries.)

Title: The wooden Pegasus

Author: Edith Sitwell

Release date: July 5, 2020 [eBook #62560]Most recently updated: October 18, 2024

Language: English

Credits: Produced by Charlene Taylor, Chuck Greif and the OnlineDistributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net (Thisfile was produced from images generously made availableby The Internet Archive/American Libraries.)

*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE WOODEN PEGASUS ***

THE WOODEN PEGASUS

BY THE SAME AUTHORCLOWNS’ HOUSES3s.net“It affects me like devilledalmonds.”—Land and Water.WHEELSAnnual Anthology of Verse6s.net“The vanguard of British Poetry.”The Saturday Review.OXFORDBASIL BLACKWELL

BYEDITH SITWELLAuthor of “Clowns’ Houses”; Editor of “Wheels”OXFORDBASIL BLACKWELL1920TOHelen RoothamOsbert SitwellSacheverell SitwellANDW. T. Walton

ACKNOWLEDGMENTMY thanks are due to the Editors ofThe Saturday Westminster,The Cambridge Magazine,Art and Letters,The Coterie, andThe Daily Mirror, and to Messrs. Cecil Palmer and Hayward for permission to reprint certain of these poems.

MY thanks are due to the Editors ofThe Saturday Westminster,The Cambridge Magazine,Art and Letters,The Coterie, andThe Daily Mirror, and to Messrs. Cecil Palmer and Hayward for permission to reprint certain of these poems.

SUMMER afternoon in Hell!Down the empty street it fell,Pantaloon and Scaramouche—Tongues like flames and shadows louche—Flickered down the street togetherIn the spangled weather.Flames, bright singing-birds that pass,Whistled wares as shrill as grass(Landscapes clear as glittering glass),Whistled all together:Papagei, oh Papagei,Buy our greenest fruits, oh buy,Melons misty from the bloomOf mellow moons on some hot night,Melting in the August light;Apples like an emerald shower;Nectarines that falling boomOn the grass in greenest gloom;Peaches bright as parrot’s featherGlistening from the moon’s bower;Chequered like fritillaries,Fat and red are strawberries.Parrot-voices shrill together—Now they pelt each monkey-face(Pantaloon with simian grace)From the soft gloom till they smotherBoth the plumed head-dressesWith the green fruit-gems that glitter(Twinkling sharp sounds like a zither).Sharp each bird-tongue shrills and hisses,Parrot-voices shrieking bane;—Down comes every spangled shutterWith a sudden noise like rain.

IN the huge and glassy room,Pantaloon, with his tail-featherSpangled like the weather,Panached, too, with many a plume,Watched the monkey Fanfreluche,Shivering in his gilded ruche,Fawn upon the piano keys—Flatter till they answer back,Through the scale of centuries,Difference between white and black.Winds like hurricanes of lightChange the blackest vacuumsTo a light-barred avenue—Semitones of might and right;Then, from matter, life comes.Down that lengthy avenueLeading us we know not where,Sudden views creep through the air;Oh the keys we stumble through!Jungles splashed with violent light,Promenades all hard and bright,Long tails like the swish of seas,Avenue of piano keys.Meaning comes to bind the whole,Fingers separate from thumbs,Soon the shapeless tune comes:Bestial efforts at man’s soul.What though notes are false and shrill—Black streets tumbling down a hill?FundamentallyI am you, and you are me—Octaves fall as emptily.

DOWN in Hell’s gilded street,Snow dances fleet and sweet,Bright as a parokeet,Or Punchinello,All glistening yellow,As fruit-jewels mellow,Glittering white and blackAs the swan’s glassy backOn the Styx’ soundless track,Sharp as bird’s painted bill,Pecking fruit, sweet and shrill,On a dark window-sill.See the glass house as smoothAs a wide puppet-booth ...Snow strikes it like a soothMelon-shaped mandolineWith the sharp tang and sheenOf flames that cry, “Unclean!”Dinah with scarlet ruche,Gay-plumaged Fanfreluche,Watch shrill as ScaramoucheIn the huge house of glassOld shadows bent, alas!On ebon sticks now pass—Lean on a nigger boyCreep like a broken toy—Wooden and painted joy.Trains sweep the empty floors—Pelongs and Pallampores,Bulchauls and Sallampores,Soundless as any breeze(Amber and orangeries)From isles in Indian seas.Black spangled veils falling(The cold is appalling),They wave fans, hear callingAdder-flames shrieking slow,Stinging bright fruit-like snow,Down in the street below;While an ape, with black spangled veil,Plum’d head-dress, face dust-pale,Scratch’d with a finger-nailSounds from a mandoline,Tuneless and sharp as sin:—Shutters whose tang and sheen,Shrieking all down the scale,Seem like the flames that failUnder that onyx nail,Light as snow dancing fleet,Bright as a parokeet,Down in Hell’s empty street.

DOWN in Hell’s gilded street,Snow dances fleet and sweet,Bright as a parokeet,

Or Punchinello,All glistening yellow,As fruit-jewels mellow,

Glittering white and blackAs the swan’s glassy backOn the Styx’ soundless track,

Sharp as bird’s painted bill,Pecking fruit, sweet and shrill,On a dark window-sill.

See the glass house as smoothAs a wide puppet-booth ...Snow strikes it like a sooth

Melon-shaped mandolineWith the sharp tang and sheenOf flames that cry, “Unclean!”

Dinah with scarlet ruche,Gay-plumaged Fanfreluche,Watch shrill as Scaramouche

In the huge house of glassOld shadows bent, alas!On ebon sticks now pass—

Lean on a nigger boyCreep like a broken toy—Wooden and painted joy.

Trains sweep the empty floors—Pelongs and Pallampores,Bulchauls and Sallampores,

Soundless as any breeze(Amber and orangeries)From isles in Indian seas.

Black spangled veils falling(The cold is appalling),They wave fans, hear calling

Adder-flames shrieking slow,Stinging bright fruit-like snow,Down in the street below;

While an ape, with black spangled veil,Plum’d head-dress, face dust-pale,Scratch’d with a finger-nail

Sounds from a mandoline,Tuneless and sharp as sin:—Shutters whose tang and sheen,

Shrieking all down the scale,Seem like the flames that failUnder that onyx nail,

Light as snow dancing fleet,Bright as a parokeet,Down in Hell’s empty street.

TANG the sharp mandoline!Hail, falling in the leanStreet of Hell, sweeps it clean.Under the puppet booth,Down in Hell, see the smoothSnow bright as fruit and sooth.Cherries and plums all freeze—Rubies upon the trees,Rubied hail falls through these,Pelting each young Snow Queen—(A swan’s breath, so whitely seen,)Flirting her fan in leanStreets, passing to and fro,White as the flamelike snow,Fruit of lips all aglowAs isles of the cherryOr ruby-sweet berryAll plump sweet and merry.Mantillas hide the shameOf each duenna dame,(Fans made of plumes of flame,)Pelted with coral bellsOut of the orchard hells,(Hail with sweet fruitage smells).Now on the platform seen,Hoofs clatter with the cleanSound of a mandoline....Under the tinsel sun,See shadow-spiders run!—Fatter than any bun,Beelzebub in a chairSits on the platform there;Candles like cold eyes stare.“Master has got the gout,”Adder-flames flare and spoutFrom his lips ... shadows rout.Tiptoe the Barber crept,On his furred black locks leapt.Candles shrieked, flaring wept.Barber takes up the shears....“Fur for the shivering fears,Cold in Hell these long years.”Candles shriek up the scale,Creaking down in a wail.Hear how their protests fail!Only cold, snakish flutesSound like the growing fruitsOut of slow hidden roots....Strange eyes a moment stare,Fruit-like and moon-like glare,From the bright shutters whereHail, falling in the leanStreet of Hell, sweeps it clean.Tang the sharp mandoline!

TANG the sharp mandoline!Hail, falling in the leanStreet of Hell, sweeps it clean.

Under the puppet booth,Down in Hell, see the smoothSnow bright as fruit and sooth.

Cherries and plums all freeze—Rubies upon the trees,Rubied hail falls through these,

Pelting each young Snow Queen—(A swan’s breath, so whitely seen,)Flirting her fan in lean

Streets, passing to and fro,White as the flamelike snow,Fruit of lips all aglow

As isles of the cherryOr ruby-sweet berryAll plump sweet and merry.

Mantillas hide the shameOf each duenna dame,(Fans made of plumes of flame,)

Pelted with coral bellsOut of the orchard hells,(Hail with sweet fruitage smells).

Now on the platform seen,Hoofs clatter with the cleanSound of a mandoline....

Under the tinsel sun,See shadow-spiders run!—Fatter than any bun,

Beelzebub in a chairSits on the platform there;Candles like cold eyes stare.

“Master has got the gout,”Adder-flames flare and spoutFrom his lips ... shadows rout.

Tiptoe the Barber crept,On his furred black locks leapt.Candles shrieked, flaring wept.

Barber takes up the shears....“Fur for the shivering fears,Cold in Hell these long years.”

Candles shriek up the scale,Creaking down in a wail.Hear how their protests fail!

Only cold, snakish flutesSound like the growing fruitsOut of slow hidden roots....

Strange eyes a moment stare,Fruit-like and moon-like glare,From the bright shutters where

Hail, falling in the leanStreet of Hell, sweeps it clean.Tang the sharp mandoline!

WHEN I was young, in ages past,My soul had castMan’s foolish shape,And like a black and hairy ape—My shadow, heNow mimics me.Follows slinking in my shadeThrough the corridors of life(Stifling ’twixt the walls I madeWith the mud and murderous knife),Takes the pulse of my black heart,Never once controls my will,Apes me selling in the martSong-birds hate did kill.

LOVELY SemiramisCloses her slanting eyes:Dead is she long ago.From her fan, sliding slow,Parrot-bright fire’s feathers,Gilded as June weathers,Plumes bright and shrill as grassTwinkle down; as they passThrough the green glooms in HellFruits with a tuneful smell,Grapes like an emerald rain,Where the full moon has lain,Greengages bright as grass,Melons as cold as glass,Piled on each gilded booth,Feel their cheeks growing smooth.Apes in plumed head-dressesWhence the bright heat hisses,—Nubian faces, slyPursing mouth, slanting eye,Feel the ArabianWinds floating from the fan:Salesmen with gilded facePaler grow, nod apace;“Oh, the fan’s blowingCold winds ... It is snowing!”

TURN again, turn again,Goose Clothilda, Goosie Jane!The wooden waves of people creakFrom houses built with coloured strawsOf heat; Dean Pappus’ long nose snores—Harsh as a hautbois, marshy-weak.The wooden waves of people creakThrough the fields all water-sleek;And in among the straws of lightThose bumpkin hautbois-sounds take flight,Whence he lies snoring like the moon,Clownish-white all afternoon,Beneath the trees’ arsenicalHarsh wood-wind tunes. Heretical—(Blown like the wind’s maneCreaking woodenly again)His wandering thoughts escape like geese,Till he, their gooseherd, sets up chase,And clouds of wool join the bright raceFor scattered old simplicities.

TURN again, turn again,Goose Clothilda, Goosie Jane!

The wooden waves of people creakFrom houses built with coloured strawsOf heat; Dean Pappus’ long nose snores—Harsh as a hautbois, marshy-weak.

The wooden waves of people creakThrough the fields all water-sleek;

And in among the straws of lightThose bumpkin hautbois-sounds take flight,

Whence he lies snoring like the moon,Clownish-white all afternoon,

Beneath the trees’ arsenicalHarsh wood-wind tunes. Heretical—

(Blown like the wind’s maneCreaking woodenly again)

His wandering thoughts escape like geese,Till he, their gooseherd, sets up chase,And clouds of wool join the bright raceFor scattered old simplicities.

NOAH, through green waters slipping sliding like a long sleek eel,Slithered up Mount Ararat and climbed into the Ark,—Slipping with his long dank hair; and sliding slyly in his barque,Pushed it slowly in a wholly glassy creek until we feelPink crags tremble under us and wondrous clear waters runOver Shem and Ham and Japhet, moving with their long sleek daughters,Swift as fishes rainbow-coloured darting under morning waters....Burning seraph beasts sing clearly to the young flamingo Sun.

Note.—Thanks due to Helen Rootham for her earnest collaboration in this poem.

THE bright-striped wooden fields are edgedWith noisy cock’s crow trees, scarce fledged—The trees that spin like tops, all weathers,Like strange birds ruffling glassy feathers.My hair is white as flocks of geese,And water hisses out of this;And when the late sun burns my cheekTill it is pink as apples sleek,I wander in the fields and knowWhy kings do squander pennies so—Lest they at last should weight their eyes!But beggars’ ragged minds, more wise,Know without flesh we cannot see—And so they hoard stupidity(The dull ancestral memoryThat is the only property).They laugh to see the spring fields edgedWith noisy cock’s crow trees scarce fledged,And flowers that grunt to feel their eyesMade clear with sight’s finalities.

THE bright-striped wooden fields are edgedWith noisy cock’s crow trees, scarce fledged—

The trees that spin like tops, all weathers,Like strange birds ruffling glassy feathers.

My hair is white as flocks of geese,And water hisses out of this;

And when the late sun burns my cheekTill it is pink as apples sleek,

I wander in the fields and knowWhy kings do squander pennies so—

Lest they at last should weight their eyes!But beggars’ ragged minds, more wise,

Know without flesh we cannot see—And so they hoard stupidity

(The dull ancestral memoryThat is the only property).

They laugh to see the spring fields edgedWith noisy cock’s crow trees scarce fledged,

And flowers that grunt to feel their eyesMade clear with sight’s finalities.

ACROSS the fields as green as spinach,Cropped as close as Time to Greenwich,Stands a high house; if at all,Spring comes like a Paisley shawl—Patternings meticulousAnd youthfully ridiculous.In each room the yellow sunShakes like a canary, runOn run, roulade, and watery trill—Yellow, meaningless, and shrill.Face as white as any clock’s,Cased in parsley-dark curled locks,All day long you sit and sew,Stitch life down for fear it grow,Stitch life down for fear we guessAt the hidden ugliness.Dusty voice that throbs with heat,Hoping with its steel-thin beatTo put stitches in my mind,Make it tidy, make it kind;You shall not! I’ll keep it freeThough you turn earth sky and seaTo a patchwork quilt to keepYour mind snug and warm in sleep.

ACROSS the fields as green as spinach,Cropped as close as Time to Greenwich,

Stands a high house; if at all,Spring comes like a Paisley shawl—

Patternings meticulousAnd youthfully ridiculous.

In each room the yellow sunShakes like a canary, run

On run, roulade, and watery trill—Yellow, meaningless, and shrill.

Face as white as any clock’s,Cased in parsley-dark curled locks,

All day long you sit and sew,Stitch life down for fear it grow,

Stitch life down for fear we guessAt the hidden ugliness.

Dusty voice that throbs with heat,Hoping with its steel-thin beat

To put stitches in my mind,Make it tidy, make it kind;

You shall not! I’ll keep it freeThough you turn earth sky and sea

To a patchwork quilt to keepYour mind snug and warm in sleep.

Back to Index Next