Poems

Front matter

POEMS

POEMS

BY

The dream barge

While thro' the spices come the fine Cool whiffs of dainty jessamine. At either end, a tiny lamp To steady it and give us light, The lamps are of the prophet's green Of floating oil in malachite; And where they touch the carpet's fold, Their twisted handles are of gold.

Thus a dream barge our mat becomes! It glides across the nursery floor, It lifts itself beside the bed, And, tho' our mother locked the door, The window offers it no bars, Wide open to the watching stars. How small the town looks from above! There is the schoolhouse, there our street, We see the station signal glow, The big policeman on his beat; And now there comes a white cloud's breast, A spire pricks thro'. We lose the rest.

Green fields beyond the city's rim, The dark slopes of the forest land; And there we find the foam-ringed beach, The pale arms of the clasping sand; The dwarf-backed waves that ride the blue, And thus the fairy tales come true. Upon a narrow spit of shore The centuries' memorials pile; Here are the dun sails of a boat Blown northward down the yellow Nile. We see a black-robed woman kneel Beside a wailing waterwheel.

Blue loin-cloths of the fellahin About their lithe, dark bodies set; The crooked alleys of the town, The tracery of a minaret. Dead cities, where the wild things tread, And all we ever dreamed or read. We see the corn jars in the wall, The women going to the well, Prayer-makers crying from a tower, We hear the distant camel bell, And watch, for many a dreaming mile, Grain barges drifting on the Nile.

We find the Valley of the Kings, And all the kings are very still; They care no more to wander from Their rock-hewn caverns in the hill; Tho' far away, with ghostly hands, Fair mirage beckons from the sands. We hear the tinkling waters fall Where some green Arab garden glows; We wing above the shady aisles That smell for ever of the rose, While, just outside the crumbling wall, Black scorpions in the sunshine sprawl.

We feed our oil lamps from the jars The Syrian merchant keeps in store; He spreads for us a rainbow robe Some Caliph's lover long since wore. We shake our heads. Tho' we may roam, Dream barges carry nothing home! A little Nubian boy, so black From small flat feet to bullet head,

Carries a bowl of scarlet, filled With snowy milk and floating bread; And, pecking with pink beaks at it, Blue pigeons on his shoulder sit.

Here is a lady, deeply veiled, Two bright eyes o'er a strip of lace, She watches as if wondering At two strange children in this place; The jewels on her hand are great, Her wrist seems weary of their weight. A dusky eunuch follows her, With feathers in his woolly hair; If he should stab her with his knife, We scarcely think that she would care We sigh as to our barge we swing, She seems to us the loneliest thing!

<>II

Here the grey donkeys climb the pass, Their osier baskets bulging big With sugary dates in Smyrna packed, And bursting lilacs of the fig. We turn from these, amazed to see How deep the blue of Galilee! We have no map; our barge floats on, Our Captain only is our wish! A gaudy-hued flamingo screams Above the silver heaps of fish. And there a grave, black-bearded man Is watchful of the pelican.

<>III

Now we are in an audience hall, A throne with peacock feathers drest; A little bundle of a king, His silly head sunk to his breast; His beard is dyed a royal blonde, And emerald and diamond Set his great turban all ablaze. He sucks a water pipe and sighs, The slender girl against his knee Looks down with murder in her eyes; 'While one who stands behind the throne Spits envies of a queen o'erthrown.

A messenger, who entered in With panting breath, salaamed and laid On cushions at the monarch's feet, A heavy bag of rich brocade. A greeting he had carried far, By jungle ways, 'neath sum and star. Past brakes where hungry tigers lay, Past creepered trails where pythons hang, Thro' mist-choked passes of the hills, Down valleys where the locust sang; Salute from his high lord to bring, And beg a favour of the King,

Who yawns and blinks and nods his head. The Favourite crouching at his feet, She eyes the messenger, and he Gives back her glances, more discreet, Conveying, between naked toes, A folded paper. How she glows, As, bending on some swift pretence, She slips it in her purple sash!

Again we hear the sound of bells; This time their hurry makes them clash Like knife on knife. There is a stain Of red … We mount our barge again.

No palace windows are too high To keep our ship of fancy out; The frightened doves wheel from the court, In the bazaar we hear a shout, And, galloping by gardens green, We see a swaying palankeen. We leave the towered town again, We like it not in angry mood, Where smoked the incense of the shrine, The cinnamons seem damped with blood. Above the misty millet plain We laugh into the clouds again …

To find the tossing sea once more, Below our flight see coral isles, Lighthouses feeling with their rays Where stealthy, treacherous tide beguiles; And hear the gannets o'er the race Scream, pecking at a dead man's face. We see black flags of pirate dhows, The rusting gold in Spanish ships, A princess in a sea-girt tower, Holding a dead flower to her lips. While, riven by the sharp rock's fangs, Half-way, a silken ladder hangs.

And then above our own dear land In the grey east there glows a light, Oh, hurry, hurry, magic barge, Or we shall not be home to-night!

And, at the school across the way, Geography's the task to-day. Our dream barge takes no heed of that— Where would its claim to magic be If it were tied to time and tide, The chattel of geography! Dream barges always guess their route … The dawn star fades, as down we shoot.

How short the night! How long the day! The key is turned; the nursery door Jerks open, and a mat of string Sinks worn and ugly to the floor … As in cold beds we snuggle down, A cock crows somewhere in the town.

The shadow of a bee

Made more for man than God, if God be such As you have shown Him, stern, aloof, and blind To sudden dimples in a bud-pale cheek And tiny rose-leaf buttons hidden by The folded 'kerchief of a satin breast. Belike my heaving shoulders aped a storm Of self-accusing, waking modesty; But underneath my down-dropt lids I saw A tasselled moor the summer whips to bloom; And lovers, to each others' bodies held, Breathing hot gorse and drunken with the sun!

Seven magpies

Noon! A drowse of scented sunshine soaked in resins of the pine; Sable feet of seven magpies keep a dancing march with mine; And when violet-vestured evening looks athwart the darkening zone, Will the witch's seven servants set their measure to my own, Till, when pallid stars are peering at the chinks of Heaven's door, I shall see a ruby signal flashing on the valley's floor, And the shadow rising, falling, of the black cat by the fire, Till the cavern in the mountain woos me as a heart's desire?

Be she old and worn and wizened, with her scant locks snaky-grey, And her withered breasts forgetting all the lovers of her day, Then I shall go laughing downward to the safety of the plain, Knowing there be maids more comely where a man may kiss again. But if she be small and subtle, with a face moon-pale and fair, Twisting scarlet rowan-berries in the storm-clouds of her hair, With a mocking mouth and dewy, and a firm breast, almond-white, Then the Curse of Seven Magpies shall be on me like a blight!

At moonrise

To-night you see the moon across the sands And ponder if it finds the far-off loom Of some Hy-Brasil that is made of dream: The heavy scent of coastal box blows down To spice the shore with sweets. You hear beyond The gum-trees and the whisper of the leaves A band that blares out jazz at the hotel … Yet, with your bridegroom's kisses on your mouth Clad in your satin gown and fragile shoes You ache to wander thro' the thorny bush By some lone crag to watch the moon alone, And know not why your eyes are blind with tears…

Sydney

Mocking Maori idols in the wide arcade … Or a blue-eyed baby with her black-eyed maid When the doves are cooing in a rustling glade And the bright geraniums flank the Gardens' gate … Or a tragic harpy with a mouth of hate Slinking where in darkness Lust and Murder wait…

Portly dames in crackling silks, thin lips overwise, Gliding by in motor-cars of a mighty size, Paris gloves, expensive shoes, avaricious eyes… Fluted roofs at Mosman, South Head's swinging lights, And the lure of laughter in the summer nights, When we twist hot scarlets thro' our day-time whites!

Sun-flecked paths at Hunter's Hill, boughs across the sky; Time in muffled sandals shuffling slowly by, Piling records, resin sweet, where pine-needles lie… One sail flashing westward on a sunset cruise, In the hush of midnight, little clicking shoes … Or the pad of naked feet out at La Perouse!

The nectar of magnolias, the sob of a violin, A dawn-wind sane as virtue, a night-wind sick as sin, And a year-round wide-set window to let the dream-folk in!

Kismet

You made a garden in Old Japan Dwarf cedar-trees, and a cherry bloom, With a quaint house built on the Willow plan And a lacquer screen in a paper room, And a grasshopper in a wicker cage, And a bloss'ming plum in your hermitage.

You were vowed to Silence, to Fast, to Prayer, A holy man, and no woman's voice Dare pierce your vows … but I found you there, A barren waste were a wiser choice! Where no cedar bloomed and no plum could grow, For the gods of the Past had willed it so!

And you smote me twice with a driving blade, And you cursed the woman who broke your hour, How could I help it? The spell was made Ere ever the lotus learned to flower! That, wheresoever the land might be, You could sow no seed that was not for me!

A little back from the country road, In a prim white fence you have made your home, But you feel the prick of the centuries' goad And are restless, waiting till I shall come; While here and there for my marriage dower, You trim a bud—and you tend a flower—

And wonder why you are ill at ease, Your household jest at your "waste of time," When you pace alone under dreaming trees, That whisper secrets of many a clime Of green oasis, of bridged lagoons, Of the slow, gold essence of honeymoons…

When you pruned the trees where the boughs arch over The buffalo grasses on moony nights, When you trained the jasmines, like a lover To feed your soul with their fragrant whites, How could you guess that it was for me You trailed the vine, and you clipt the tree?

When you watered the grass on the oval patch And grooved the steps in the terraced green, Did you hear no lift of the fastened latch? Did nothing pass by the paw-paw's screen To tell you that you must toil in vain Till our cycle brought me to you again?

Because of a night in Old Japan When my life went out on your bright red blade, Because you have thwarted the Great God's plan, Because of a game you have not played, In the hush of the moonlit night you wake And break your heart for a woman's sake…

The Nearest to you are still estranged, The ties you make, they can never bind, Oh, think of the scented ways we ranged, When the moon was full and the gods were kind! Wistaria blossoms that wreathed the gate, Yet … I have forgiven … and I can wait … Till the gods have said that the blade is clean, That Love Eternal defies the stain, Till my hands find yours with no hands between, And the broken circle is whole again; With brave boughs fended, with roses deep, In our last green garden we two shall sleep! . .

Old men

Old men who can remember wooden ships And days of link boys, and when Dickens wrote His serials, month by month, and how they strove To save up pennies that a lad might learn The ending of the chapter as it came From that grey house in London where he wrote.

Some chuckle as they tell the oft-told tale; The voices quaver as the stories grow— Voices that once were wont to boast and shout In lusty arrogance of ardent youth: The eyes are deprecating, for they seek Affection from the young, though it be doled In paltry measure. Youth has much to give, And spills a little of its treasure here! Kind, and, if careless, kind at any rate! Crumbs from his board is all that old men crave, And some sit silently, remembering, And now and then will laugh, and then will sigh; Only the dead years know what they recall. At times one stoops to pluck a violet, Creaking in every joint and breathing loud, And in the presence of mere Middle Age, Wistful, apologetic, as Old Age Learns to be at the last to those who shove Him from his niche, too greedy for his place, Forgetful of the decent interval, to leap At Chance, and leave him waiting only death.

It breaks my heart to see these old men go, Slowly and sadly, in the hurrying street; Neglected, overlooked by all but Time.

Fo-tai-ho-chung

Hugging his goodly paunch he sits, And everywhere is a jest discerned, No lean saint he, with a begging bowl, He stirs the vat of his bubbling soul With mem'ries plucked where a quick blood burned.

I am ashamed—who wept last night— Till the moon was blurred in a mist of grey To look at his round, contented self Hugging his paunch on the cedar shelf And smiling out of the dusk—at day.

But … he is china … suppose a charm Could work for me from his kind mouth spoken? Some sorcery of the Orient Till I be made porcelain … white … content … For only once can such gods be broken.

Greetings

And if at evening when the emerald stars Have made a jewel-mine of sea and sky, And you shall stir to the forgotten touch Of that fond hand that used to curl in yours And hate to leave the man-grip of your palm; Then if your fingers seem to close in sleep About the ringless hand that loved too well, It is my phantom, passing through the air Ghost fingers that are lonelier than yours!

If at the dawn, you wake to muffled cries, Hoarse chantings of the street and loud newsboys Who seem to think that Crime was made for this, Murder and suicide and bloody war, Especially designed for special sales! And raucous milkmen and insistent wheels, And all things city-smirched and foul and grey, No welcoming leaves a-peep o'er window-sills And the sun worship of awakening trees— If there comes humming like a harp in boughs, Soft waves on pebbly beaches, or a breath Ringing the golden bells of mountain flowers, Know it is I, whose heart keeps music still Among the broken strings you used to play!

The fruit of day

To one shall come the Apple of Desire Red-stained upon the ambers of its globe, Keeping within its core a smouldering fire To scorch the snout, that nozzles Circe's robe: A fatal circle is its pared rind, Where the slow seeds of lust their fruits shall find:

To one may fall an orange of the South Glistening mosaics packed within its sphere, Rich with the scarlets of a passionate mouth Or quivering rainbows, fashioned on a tear Because he cannot hope to build again The castle towers that seemed so real—in Spain.

A purple plum Night flings the sailor-man; It cast white petals once in Tokio Emblem of purity in Old Japan, But wanderers cannot reap the seed they sow … Too ripe for him to-day the earth-fruits come, Thirsting upon the flavour of a plum.

The scientist, as sere as dust by day, One might suspect of dessicated fruits, But he is dreaming back an English May, A stretch of dappled grass, and primrose roots, Night brings no husks to one who grasps at truth His threaded cherries have the taste of youth!

Night is the fruit of day. So empty are The hands of some, Night brings them only sleep, Untrimmed the lamp—that might have been a star, Unborn the fruits, and buried, dry and deep, The shoot of promise. So they wake alone To barren acres where no seed was sown,

I often wonder what Night brings to you! With your still pools of thought where lilies glaeam Even at dawn your scattered blossoms blew Your bannered boughs on every wild wind stream— Surely you pluck from Day's prolific trees The golden apples of Hesperides!

Sky fantasy

When the rain that came at midnight, in a sheet of level grey, Has hid the stars and drowned the moon that rose but yesterday: Then I know the wily Arab in his desert of the air Shuts his little bride securely in the tent of camel's hair.

He will steal a star to light it, in his thievish Arab way; He will string the planets for her neck, and on the winds will play A melody of joy and war, of ancient loves and hates; Pluck from the silver tray of Years, the fairest of her dates!

And if to-morrow break all blue, with never cloud to dim The lacquer bowl of Heaven, oh, "You need not look for him." For somewhere over earth's pale rim beyond the world he goes To a Paradise more perfect than the Unbeliever knows!

St. Patrick blessed her eyes

I trembled sore, forninst her door For she's a woman now, I looked at her white prideful chin, And at her queenly brow, But, sure, for all the haughty (The thorn that rose belies!) I caught her in my arms and found St. Patrick blessed her eyes!

In dark gardens

The moon came up above the town, It silvered spire and fretted roof, And man and maid danced on the grass, And only she remained aloof. A branch cast shadow on the ground, And swift she bent, as though she found

A petal in the darkness flung Of some fair bloom she once had known. Almost her lips curved to a smile, Then, with drooped head, we heard her moan, And saw her, as the widowed stand, With famished eyes and empty hand

More glad she grew in winter-time, And at her wheel, we heard her sing, For all the flowers were lost in snow But grief came back with every spring. She seemed again to feel her dearth When the first blade pricked thro' the earth

Her foster brother loved her well, He would have kist her mouth to glows, But lily pale and cold she kept Who in the dark had found a rose That grows not in a marriage bed— And so he wedded Joan instead

When fecund earth was greatly green, And birds sang in the dusky wood, And there were rabbits in the copse, And grain grew gold and life was good, At the long close of one rare day, Into the mirk she stole away

The grandad with his ninety years, Palsied these ten, sat watching her. The sun went down behind the hills, He heard the gleaming insects whirr, He saw bright eve her eyelids close And sobbed and muttered of a rose.

Perhaps, beyond the bluest peak, In some dark vale, she found her flower, Perhaps her hungry heart was filled— We never saw her from that hour So long ago—old memories fail! Almost a legend seems the tale!

The children brought white daisies in, With frills about a yellow face, They brought her broom from stony hills, And violets from a marshy place But only weeds are these to those Who, in dark gardens, found a rose.

Dream gardens

And the scattered buds of a wind-torn tree, Bauhinia, bright as butterfly. Till a page will turn in a sunlit sky And I read the blossoms that used to be.

In the crumbling clay, when the light has gone, I shall build me towers where the tall palm stands; I shall fill with myrtles my hungry hands From the hanging gardens of Babylon.

In wandering ocean, in earth-ditch deep I shall see green grass and the poppies blow. I may fail of Heaven; but this I know, God will plant gardens through all my sleep!

The honey pool

The rainbow ribboned above its gleaming, And, as a mirror of copper shows A queen's flushed cheek, it was painted rose By the agile dawn with the mauve mists scheming; And ere the sun in the hot hills slept He had flung gold arrows to test its depth.

By the small gilt horns of the new moon ambered The feathery night-moths came there to feed; And, to certain death in their scrambling greed, A fated army: the black ants clambered, And many a lovely, foolish thing Was dragged to death thro' a honeyed wing.

Then there came a grocer to walk that way, And he crushed the fern with his placid feet, And he found the pool that was golden sweet When the air was tender as new-mown hay; And he drained that pool, for it seemed no sin, And he packed it all into squares of tin.

You can buy it now in the nearest shop— There's a State-fixed charge, so you won't pay over The standard price if it taste of clover, Or you find a rainbow in every drop, For no man can rate such magic things As the iridescence on wild moths' wings!

The song of the lark or an iris petal, The green delights of a beetle's back, Unscheduled compounds he came to pack In a labelled tin of the homeliest metal: Just take your honey, and don't suppose That the serious soul of the grocer knows!

Blue tiles

When behind two harsh towers the heavens looked thro' In one soft sweep of unforgotten blue. He swore by his long beard that Allah sent This message to him: he should be content With the brown earth He gave, the prophet's green Of waving grass: the blue of heaven seen Thro' the tall towers men builded, for it must Be just as blue when men and towers were dust.

So he returned to his own land, and strove By the oil-lamp and into moth-filled dusk Behind the fretted screen, while the inviting musk From floating garments of white dancing girls Whispered to him in vain. Where incense curls In the dim mosque, his thoughts from Allah strayed To mixing dyes that fadeless colour made! And from his toil the countless ages thro', Comes to a hardware shop the Persian blue.

And yet I see, where some smug grate beguiles, A malice in the hand that wrought these tiles!

The cat in the cupboard

Belike your forbear from the Old World came— A soldier's bride in snowy pantalettes, And bonnet too severe for her small face. (Who shuddered from her bridegroom's sheathed sword, And dreamed at night of horrid visages Scowling, where convicts huddled in the waist Of the accursed ship!) An English girl, With mittened hand and obvious wedding-ring, Smuggled her pet from some grey parsonage To meet the blaze of the Antipodes! Or else a "lifer's" sweetheart, following him Over the blue of wide, adventurous seas With tight plaid shawl held to her ample breast, Brought your ancestor, clawing at the bag! Maybe your great grandsires have met a king Who had a queen at home, but knew a nest Of dropping lilac-trees and hedges clipt Inside stone walls that guard the secret well Of that light lady from the provinces: And your grandsire enjoyed a patch of sun, And washed his ear and burnished up his tail, And scorned the strutting peacock in his path; Familiar with the merry ways of kings, Watched the sword-stick, yet purred complacently, Royal himself in poise, though presently To drown his virtue in the pantry cream! A tiger you become sometimes at dawn In the wet grasses ambushing a bird. On moonlit nights an emerald-eyed romance You flit, a shadow into silences, Leaving behind a gently swaying rose You flicked in passing, till its censer spills Musk on the tropic air, and still, I know Your vice is cupboards—the door ajar!

September haze

So while fresh buddings jewel grass and tree, And every purple stock that bursts the swathe Of sage-green sepal must believe itself The first to gladden a September world, The flowers of a hundred buried springs Watch wistfully, grey ghosts of pleasances, Blurring the outlines of the drowsing hills, As tears may blot those bright September greens In aged eyes that go remembering A golden summer when the heart was young.

Dark rivers

And beyond this are many empty plains, And farther still, the railway and the scrolls Of the straight unwound lines, the naked poles Of telegraph, the coach road rutted deep From the wet passing of a mob of sheep. Hard by the rotting timbers of a bridge A sapless plant of bracken tries to grow; A harmless lizard scuttles to and fro A frugal meal of feeble flies to make. There's nothing here as subtle as a snake!

So the long days melt into quiet nights, Dun-coloured flats and fire-blackened hills, But over there, the python hangs and kills The shuddering doe; and in the light and shade Of forest paths, such games of death are played That life soars, glowing on exultant wing— Man having learned the value of a thing For which he wrestles daily! Surely love Must be worth having where such hazards move!

The sickly sunset bathes the sallow stream, A toneless twilight on the township lies. There are dark rivers under tropic skies. And tho' I have not seen it, yet I think I know the way a lion comes to drink!

Climbing sweet-pea

Always when morning comes I look Across the space of grass and dew For that peaked roof, that small red door, That is my best beloved view; Always I yearn to ease my fright Lest you were blown to God last night

Upon the mounting wings of flowers! Sweet-pea all ivory and foam And mauve and pink that cluster close Round the foundations of your home— They are to me such pulsing things, So ready to be turned to wings.

The burning

And when she did not sink, that was the help She had from Satan … who her father is … I have done well, I pattered many prayers … A bede-role of good deeds … and this was one…

The dying sun shines thro' the coloured glass, Matthew and Mark and John are pictured there. … Within my mouth God's wine tastes salt of tears Upon my tongue God's wafer chokes with dust …

And still between the flames I see her eyes…

The creek in the scrub

I know, when the sun is westering, How a bright sail slants like a swooping wing; I know how the shore grows fuchsia-pale When sunset beats with his blood-red flail The billowing gold from the fields of blue To lead the gleaners of twilight through; And I know that the noon has clasped the bay With an opal chain on a silver spray. I see at morn how the samphire strays Till a streak of jade through the turquoise plays, How the dawn strings pearls for the breast of night, And the south wind laces the waves with white.

But I also know that my heart must seek A spice-sweet scrub and a bouldered creek, Where a tree-fern leans like a link across The orange fungi, the emerald moss.

Red broom-handles

And who will buy these wild, red-handled brooms? I see the housewife look at them askance, Fearing them partners in some eldritch dance About the decent privacy of rooms: I see a little child with longing eyes Wishing that mothers were not always wise!

One pictures Red Shoes in the German tale, Of how she pirouetted into Hell, Leaving two ghostly shoes the tale to tell, And make the vanity of madchen quail! Dancing forever 'neath the varying moon, A skeleton—upheld by prancing shoon!

I know not where the carter took his load; Did it go crawling up the wattled hills Leaving a carmine quiver in the rills, A curl of dust along the sunny road? Or in the suburbs, halt at every door, Proffering a magic for the common floor?

Perhaps, before it scaled the gum-topped range, The witches saw it from a distant peak And promptly swooped, new riding-hacks to seek! The placid driver may have thought it strange That from a pipe-soothed day-dream he should start To find the greedy hags had bared his cart!

Jogging across the bridge the traffic through, Weaving against its dun a scarlet thread, Arresting as some beacon message, sped Along far vistas infinitely blue, Where cobwebs of archaic systems sway Red Revolution—sweeping creeds away!

The dancer

The pallid ladies with smudge of rouge In their wrinkles, whispered behind a fan, With anxious eyes under powdered hair, For a tavern lass may entice a man, So they smirked . . but watched . . for belike the King Might weigh light coins with a jewelled ring!