"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 lips In 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
Acknowledgements Grateful 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 his Songs 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 switches Hardly bending; Remember the white shore road And the blue water in the Bay Still fretted with clotted snow At the sand edge? The sky was a light, high blue And all the clouds were little, and frisky. And we kept making wagers about the willows At 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 hue You 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 sleek As carded silk … and in my eyes To 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 'round And no night … And the dark shut out! You're pain Drowned in joy, And laughter from the heart … You're loving kindness … The look of dear acquaintance And a hand to hold, Always!
This Was My Brother (For Lt.-Col. Howard McTavish, killed in action at Dieppe)
This was my brother At Dieppe, Quietly a hero Who gave his life Like a gift, Withholding nothing.
His youth … his love … His enjoyment of being alive … His future, like a book With half the pages still uncut -
This was my brother At Dieppe - The one who built me a doll house When 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 shamed At 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 feeling You get Going down in elevators Only you're not in an elevator - It just comes. Everything sort of goes away from you, And you feel a little scared And a lot lonely … It's like this Remember Tippy … the little brown dog … And how we loved him; And how he ran just a little ahead of you, Just a little too fast And you, chasing him on your tricycle … And the curb came, And you stopped, And Tip, didn't And he just lay there, And the look was gone out of his eyes And we tucked him away in a brown bean carton Under the apple tree And 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 kitchen While I made peanut butter cookies And took the part of Renny At the same time … And it was pretty exciting And 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 applause And the feeling of "power" When you nip't your cue Right on the nose; And then it was all over And there weren't any more rehearsals, And all the excitement was quenched And school seemed uncommonly dull And one night you went back to the theatre To get your little riding boots, And it was deserted and dusty. But that lovely smell of make-up Still lingered in the dressing-room; And you stood there for a minute With one boot in your hand And let it just "roll" over you … The Play … the lights … the fun … And then you gave yourself a little shake And picked up the other boot … and felt … well … That was "nostaglia"!
***
And then … remember the time in the Union Station And we'd been down to Gammie's together Because Daddy was there … on Last Leave … And he'd met us at the train, And taken you to the Mess And 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 Movie And felt very proud when we came out Because 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 once It wasn't funny. And you were still holding the little metal disc in your hand Daddy had stamped out for you With your name on it. And you didn't seem to want to put it out of your hand Not 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 love And her flying hair … and the lips he'd kissed. He had made for himself, from a little phrase A 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 dreams That 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 desirable And womanly …
That girl in Hong Kong … She felt safe … and secure … and thankful for security; Maybe she chose a gay, almost boastfully red lipstick Because it was Christmas.
How pitiful is paint On the mouth of one Dead!
Image
You can't put it into words, This feeling of remembering. It comes up like a little mist Between 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 sleep I could smell the Sea And a salt wind blowing … And I knew that you had gone from me!
Answer Me!
Answer me this What do lovers do When 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 down By the eager feet of the returning dreamers; Hand turned against hand, like two children Coming back to a garden; Voices soft, and anxious, and blurred with their intolerable longing!
Answer me this What do lovers do When there is no more meeting?
Immortality, 1943
Immortality … It's such a big word I always thought it was something tremendous - Big … like a cathedral … Or the Sea … Now, I think it's little But 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 well All my love."
Sometimes it's a child - How he turns his head, The shape of his hands, His laugh With the head thrown back, And joy, like a shining sword Cutting the dark -
Immortality … It's what goes on, It's what marches on After the march is over - It's wings in the sky After the plane is down -
It's tears and laughter And Beauty … burning like a star Alive, … in the heart … Forever!
Cathedral
The square in front of Notre Dame, I fancy it must look the same; With trampled snow, and pigeons drifting From sky to earth; Cathedral lifting Its classic spires … aloof … austere … It must be like it was last year.
Remember the tall Franciscan monk With 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 handkerchief To tie on my head … that we might go in? It was quiet, and dark - and warm and still With the whisper of "Aves", murmuring.
And we stood at the shrine of Sacre Coeur To 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 again Because of lads like you, Who wear their wings And find these things as wonderful As they had seemed On 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 men Articulate in stone. Honour made manifest; The shadow of the Grail Falls 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 come Who make little jokes About the "pretty nurse". It takes a few minutes; A few minutes stretched comfortably out on a cot With your heart-beats measuring Drop by drop the gift you give To keep some soul alive. It takes a few minutes out of a single day To make you one of the vast army Back of the fighting army.
It takes a few minutes But because of that few minutes Soldiers and sailors and flyers Are going to come back after this war Who couldn't come back Without 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 something Money couldn't buy. The "quality of mercy", Shakespeare said.
It takes a few minutes But it lets you in on a miracle!
Promise
We used to say Oh, just in fun, That when the time came We would run Away together just the two …
And live like all good Pixies do Under a toadstool.
You laughed And said we'd get quite tipsy On rain cocktails; And ipsy-dipsy We'd wander here … and wander there, And I, with flowers in my hair.
You promised, When you went away You'd come for me; and on that day We'd seek the kindly, farthest star Where 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 trees Like a great hand, Stirring their feathery leaves and weaving violet shadows On their shining surface.
Lying flat on the young grass Stretched out very tall And 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 thing For love to sleep in this velvet earth? I pressed my face against the fallen leaves And 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 certainty That it was so.
"Love is beautiful, and love will die …" Said my heart, and even the dark earth Was 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 march And off they go, curling in a snaky line Round the corner from the Market Square, Under the old town clock. All the people in town Seem to have hurried down to one spot To 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 church And in at the door.
There isn't any need for tears pushing up to the surface But 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 ghost Walks this night, Clad not in holy mail Robed not in white.
Nothing like a halo Round 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 teeth Beautiful and white, Eyes full of shining dreams On this night.
A dear ghost, a young ghost Walks this eve, If he finds you paintable He will touch your sleeve,
Saying, as the wind would, "Please stand still…" Sketching you and vanishing Over some hill!
Quiet Has Come Down (Owen Sound)
Quiet has come down over this little village As if a Nun, saying her beads Had asked for peace And it been granted.
A white sort of quiet, Having to do with the snow And 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 quiet Is too beautiful to be borne. Were it not for the ebony of the branches, And the dark arm of a church spire And your black hair like a dark bird flying!
Hands
Hands have a way Of betraying things. I found this out In a small, strange way; You touched my face The other day!
Rain … In the City
Rain… Even in the city It 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 streets And fling their sweetness over formal lawns And stiff, uncompromising dahlia beds!
Just let the drops come stinging down Against your eyelids; False tears that tangle in your lashes, Making blurs of all the lamp-post lights Until they swim like harbour lamps Up through the larkspur evening.
Feel it against your shins, The stinging slanting rain That laces all the gutters With 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 hoofs Bound for the stable.
Rain… Even in the city It has the smell of the country!
You, the Sower of Seed
You, the sower of seed In this fertile field That is my body, Tenderly shall I care for it, Guard it from heat and cold And sudden change.
Only the softest sun shall shine on it Wrap't in careful quietness This white field shall sleep.
Dream I, in arrowy adoration Of the garnering-in time. Your seed … sown in the field That is my body, Quickening to life In the secret places Under my heart. And whatever the yield I 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 shadow Had pressed against him fearfully. And I turned him in his little bed And he drifted re-assured, Into quiet sleep. But who are we to turn to In the long night When 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 leaf And 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 do Chained as she is Like hooded falcon to the wrist, When she can neither rise, nor fly, Nor sing her song in the darkness?
Autumn Is Unfair
Autumn is unfair To stir again, in lash of wood smoke, Scent of bitter berries The ashes of desire. To stir and prod with gnarled unfriendly fingers The leaves piled high about the tender roots, Disturbing the sleeping blossoms.
(Oh to be free of this damaging enchantment Of russet leaves and scarlet thorny hedges!)
Even to walk quite swiftly in the evenings Down fog-filled streets Pressing the cool to your lips, Is not enough;
O anodyne of snow, Swift-falling, white, delivering angel, Or rain … or wind … or any single thing To break this tenuous leash.
To let the heart sleep Lightly, as the brown tulip bulbs … To let the heart sleep!
Nocturne
When lovers lie In summer grass And watch the cloud ships As they pass, Love is a blend Of pain and bliss … Somewhere a shadow, Dark and tall, Across the heart-beat Seems to fall Denying joy …
This thing will go, It will not stay When summer goes And you're away …
So runs the thread of darkling song, And yet - within each other's eyes They drown this knowledge; and disguise The 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 fuss About it. Accepting all we did Quietly, 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 tries Science affords. He drifted out Farther away. You couldn't even reach him With your hand, finally. He'd made his peace with Death. Just for a second, up from the Sargasso Sea of kindly opiates He 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 represent Beauty and light and sacrament; Your topmost star to him outshines the sun, Your branches every one Are 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 boy Fabulous 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 tea Frighten me!
The tea is amber, The ices lush; But I always feel That I'm swallowing plush When the repartee Becomes sharp and prickly; I smile and nod And agree too quickly; And squirm for the victims Slaughtered lightly; And wish for a sign-board To signal brightly These welcoming words To allay my fear: "Chicken-hearted, Exit, here!"
Ladies at tea Frighten me!
Portrait
You walked in your drawing-room, Your gown rustling like autumn leaves; Its heavy folds of delicate silk The 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 figurine In cloisonné, that had stepped down for a moment From a Louis Quinze table. Or then again, you might have been a princess Who had lived most of her life In a Fairy Tale for children. Then you would have worn a little cap of pearls, And your small enchanted hands Would have been heavy with emeralds.
You walked in your drawing-room In 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 Ireland Couldn't be lovelier! Beautiful, are the Caledon hills; Green, like moss is green, And gracious, And ever-rolling.
And the little trees That march down the sides of the hills Are like trees Cut from green blotting-paper. They stand very straight, And not very tall, And their ranks are beautifully un-thinned.
And the hordes of silly sheep Crying, "Baa Baa" Out of their curious black faces; And the Scottish cattle with their great horns; And the chestnut-and-black horses Leaning 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 stars You 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 aware That brittle berries strew the ground, And how the wind, an unleashed hound Prowls through the wood.
It must be very still and deep Where you have gone; your gentle sleep Must be a lovely dreamless thing. No horns of daybreak reach your rest, No muffled drums of midnight breast Your dim retreat … and well I know You would not stir, beneath the snow.
And yet the first lush rain of Spring Must speak to you; must dance and sing Across your heart, though it be still. The scent of hyacinth must fill The very earth, the birth of grass Be like the feet of fauns who pass In mocking masque among the trees.
Though you should walk elysian fields I somehow know, that even there You still must smell the apple trees … Who found the spring so brief and fair!
Dilemma
You know, If you were only a book I'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 magic That twists me like a silly skein To fit your latest picture of me What am I to do about you?
Ah… And even if you were a book I should love you very dearly, And carry you about with me In my coat pocket, Always!
Night Garden
Here is a silver star Caught 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 evening Your feet You 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 echo Through the dark, cool earth that spreads above my head, I shall forget that I have ever known you. Your kisses shall become inconsequent As 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 fear As I do now … this night … my very Dear!
Cloister
The young priest Stood holding a small book in his hands, Under a tree Newly-stripped of its leafage. He stood very still … Remote, The wind whipping his long robes Into swirling darkness. There behind cloistered walls The war was unreal, A distant dragon Whose fiery breath Was legend. Just for a minute The world stood still Imprisoned in the pages Of a small book. There was healing in the sight, The young priest Reading words set down many centuries ago. Oh soon, soon, let there be peace Over the whole world And the young men Coming back to their books!