Collected Poems 1931-74 Read Online Free PDF Page A

crook.
    Prudence did dip and delve in the Holy Book,
    Alpha to omega angels told her the tale,
    Feeding the parrot, pensive over a croquet-hoop:
    â€˜Once upon a time was boy and girl,
    Living on cherry, berry, fisherman’s silver catch.
    Now the crass cock crows in the coop,
    Prudence, the door dangles, lacking a latch.’
X
    My uncle has gone beyond astronomy.
    He sleeps the sharp sleep of the unstrung harp.
    Crossed into Tartary, he lies deep
    In the flora and fauna of death,
    Under a black snowline sleeps the steep,
    Botanical, plant-pure sleep.
    The soul is folded like a little mouse.
    Body is mortuary here, the clock
    Foiled in its own wheels—but he may be sleeping,
    Even if no toe moves no where, the sock
    Be empty of all but vessels—where is he creeping?
    Where is my man’s address? How does he perish
    Who was my relish, who was without fault?
    Strike with the black rod, Lord God.
    This is the marmoreal person, the rocky one.
    This is the pillar of savourless salt.
XI
    My uncle has gone beyond astronomy.
    He sleeps in the pocket of Lapland,
    Hears thunder on a Monday, has known
    Bone burn to ash for the urn’s hold.
    He has fine nails of his finger and of his toe.
    Now colder than spittle is his mettle. The hand
    Is cold bone touching cold stone. So
    In the sad womb he plays the trump of doom.
    Lord, here is music. This fine white ’cello
    Hums no more to the gust of your air.
    This supercilious fellow, think what was given
    To nourish his engine, salt barley and beer.
    All wasted, gone over, destroyed by death’s leaven,
    Scent of the apple and stain of the berry.
    Now only the ignorant hedgehog dare,
    Smelling the fruit in him, dance and be merry.
XII
    Prudence was told the tale of the chimney-corner
    In the ingle beetled over the red troll’s book
    Ate the white lie: ‘Happily ever after,
    A hunchback, a thimble, a smart swan,
    Ride time’s tall wave, musically on and on …’
    Was it of God to bait and wait with the hook?
    Was it of him black laughter at ‘happily ever after’,
    A grass widow, a shadow embalmed in a story-book?
    Memory is morsels offered of sparrows.
    First prize a jug and bowl for correcting the clock,
    Sending a telegram, gathering holy campion.
    Lowly Prue is glum of finger and thumb,
    Toe in the ember, dismembering spools of knitting.
    Patience on a monument, passion on a cushion.
    God’s champion darning a sock, sitting.
XIII
    My uncle sleeps in the image of death.
    The shadow of other worlds, deep-water penumbra
    Covers his marble: he is past sighing,
    Body a great slug there, a fine white
    Pike in a green pond lying.
    My uncle was a red man. The dead man
    Knew to shoe horses: the habits of the owl,
    Time of tillage, foison, cutting of lumber,
    Like Saint Columba,
    Could coax the squirrels into his cowl.
    Heu! for the tombeau, the sombre flambeau,
    Immanent with God he lies in Limbo.
    Break punic rock. Weather-man of the tomb,
    We are left among little mice and insects,
    Time’s clock-work womb.
XIV
    Prudence sweetly sang both crotchet and quaver,
    Death riped an eyeball, the dog-days
    Proffered salt without savour, the cards were cut.
    She heard a primordial music, the Host’s tune
    For the guest’s swoon—God going the gamut.
    Honour a toast for the regimental mascot,
    The thin girl, the boys of the blue fourteenth,
    Driving to Ascot: a wedding under the sabres,
    Tinker and tailorman, soldier or sailor,
    Lads of the village entering harbour,
    O respect also those windowless features,
    The stainless face of the provincial barber.
    Prudence plays monumental patience by candles:
    The puffins sit in a book: the muffins are molten:
    The crass clock chimes,
    Timely the hour and deserved.
    Presently will come the two welcome angels
    Noise in the hall, the last supper be served.
    1943/ 1938
F IVE S OLILOQUIES U PON THE T OMB OF U NCEBUNKE
I
    My uncle has entered his soliloquy.
    He keeps vigil under the black