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Product Details
| ISBN-13: | 9781775582458 |
|---|---|
| Publisher: | Auckland University Press |
| Publication date: | 11/01/2013 |
| Sold by: | Barnes & Noble |
| Format: | eBook |
| Pages: | 350 |
| File size: | 1 MB |
About the Author
Read an Excerpt
Young Knowledge
The Poems of Robin Hyde
By Michele Leggot
Auckland University Press
Copyright © 2003 Auckland University PressAll rights reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-77558-245-8
CHAPTER 1
SECTION ONE
1925–1929
PIERRETTE
Chanson
When I was young and very wise
The world was just a place of roses,
Singing viols and drifting scents,
Dream-folk walking in garden closes;
Love, and all that follows after,
Was a thing for children's laughter –
Thing of kisses and shining eyes,
When I was young and very wise!
Gay youth goes singing past – and yet,
Though shadows darken my summer skies
And roses wither, shall I forget
Things I dreamed about, young and wise?
Love's mine for taking, and silver stars
Shine down on me through my prison bars –
For dreamers dwell in a world apart,
With empty hands – and the stars in their
heart.
[St C/2]
Jeunesse
Listen, Pierrette. Ah, how the white moon gleams
As silver-footed o'er the pines she goes!
When I was young, Pierrette, I loved a Rose –
The rose was Life: the petals were my dreams.
Crimson-dark glowed the petals. Well I knew
Their guarded heart of gold was queenly fair –
Somewhere, through small cold leaves, the dawn wind blew –
The petals fell. No heart of gold was there ...
Little Pierrette, I laugh, and kiss your hair.
So warm your lips ... when I was young and wise
I loved the cold maid who goes wandering
Lonely and lost along cloud-purple skies.
I found a moonglade, where clear waters sing
To dark, dream-haunted trees. And there, Pierrette,
I waited, kneeling, boy's heart all aflame
To kiss the little crystal foot she'd set
On starlight-silvered grass. She never came ...
Child, but your soft lips make me half forget!
[St C/5]
Rain
Rain-murmurings; the wind whines and snuffles, wet
As a poor dog whose lord has ceased to care
For faithful things like dogs. And you, Pierrette,
With little firelit face and firegold hair
Curled like a kitten in an easy chair
Who purrs for stroking. Velvet soft – and yet,
Who knows, behind your yellow eyes, what brain
May serve you? Hark! The little whine of rain.
Rose-red azaleas around you bend –
Soft from your lamp the rose-red shadows fall –
See, golden eyes, how rose and golden blend
As panther firelight leaps along the wall!
Outside, the small wind shakes a dripping coat,
Stifling a little whimper in its throat.
[St C/7]
To a Lady
Rose-red azaleas around you stand
In many jars. I think you never heard
A story, cried by some wild storm-tossed bird,
How golden women, in another land,
From all their trees seek out one moon-pale spray –
Looking at it, men dream their lives away.
[St C/10]
Pierrette
Winds of the twilight, lithe and sweet,
Stir the pine-needles 'neath our feet
Here where starshine and shadow meet.
Scent of bluegum-leaves, dusk-dew-wet,
Seems to cling in your hair, Pierrette –
Theme enough for my chansonette.
Dreams fly past me on soft grey wings,
Ghost-hands pluck at my viol-strings,
Whispering secret, sorrowful things.
Winds in the dark, a-roving free,
Storm and shine of the changing sea
Cry for voice in the heart of me.
But somehow they change on my lips, Pierrette,
To light little songs of vague regret –
Tunes to whistle and swift forget,
Of starshine lighting the way to a kiss,
Moonglades darkened for lovers' bliss,
Warm arms clinging – no more than this –
Give me your bold lips, crimson-sweet –
Wild red poppies among the wheat –
Weeds to trample 'neath godly feet.
What if the Jester bids me dream
Of silver star-pale lilies agleam,
Floating dim on a lonely stream?
Cold white lilies, with dawn dew wet –
Hearts of gold 'mid pearl-petals set –
Such flowers bloom not in the world, Pierrette.
Give me your soft lips, chérisette,
Scarlet thread of my chansonette –
Far too sweet to have drained regret –
Wiser than Solomon's, gay Pierrette!
[St C/11]
Friend
It is strange that there should be
In this darkness that encloses
Rainbow atoms that were me
The dim scent of yellow roses.
Hands that I have prayed to rest
On hot brow and tired breast,
Your small hands are heavy now –
But I feel across my brow
Petals drift ... with such, I know,
You were crowned – so long ago!
You were very gay, Pierrette,
Crystal-hard, your wise world knows –
Yet my face is strangely wet –
Dewfall from a yellow rose.
[St C/13]
Dedication for a Book
Suddenly, after rain, a tui sings,
His song a telling of green-gloomy caves
Serpent-lithe shadows, little yellow waves
That wake the reeds with frosty whisperings.
I make you gift of unattainèd things.
I can remember childhood's haunted dells
And rainbow-dusted butterflies, that fled
To hide from me in Canterbury bells.
See! I have caught them for you. They are dead ...
But still their beaten wings are black and red.
[St C/38]
Firelight
They say, the world's a wisp of smoke
Drifting from some great yellow fire
That blazes in the sun, or higher
Than we can guess, we simple folk.
Little rings of blue, Pierrette,
Laze around your cigarette –
Round-about, they say, we whirl
Faster than the smoke-rings curl,
Faster than the orange spark
Leaping for the chimney-dark,
Faster than the flames that leap
Like a tiger roused from sleep
By the crackle of the trees –
By a man-scent on the breeze.
Thus and thus they say – and yet
You can seem so still, Pierrette –
They say, the great stars wheel and clash
To some moon-crazy fiddler's measure –
Having no thought for peace nor pleasure –
Golden with flame or gaunt with ash.
So they say. How soft, Pierrette,
Round about your cigarette,
Wisps of blue come clustering!
Quiet as a nested wing
Is the darkness of your head
On its cushion black and red –
Poppy-red, the lamplight lies
Dreamingly in dreaming eyes
And your throat is childish-still
As a star-entrancèd hill –
As a forest wet with rain
List'ning for its birds again.
[St C/43]
The Circus
It is night. All the great grave skies are silver-spangled
Like a circus girl who dances to a gipsy tune
And the big brown hands of the riding wind are tangled
In the mad yellow mane of the tiger-tawny moon.
And shadows are the panthers, with velvet-padding feet –
Cling together, you and I. Lie still and hold your breath,
But the wind cracks his whip, and the wind's laugh is sweet
And the stars are silver bars on the black cage of Death.
And night is a Columbine, and that young slender beech
Is poor Pierrot, who dreams upon the twinkle of her toes
With his dark young boughs a-whisper. 'She is ever out of reach!'
But she breaks off a spray of stars and flings it like a rose!
He has caught her to his breast – oh the night's skirt is blue
And warm starlight loves them in their secret shadowed glade
For her scent is all of lilies, her eyes are bracken-dew –
Ah, children, you and I! We forget to be afraid.
[Vol 2/2]
Wine of the Moon
Down in the darkness, azalea trees
Stand with the starlight awash at their knees –
Lady, tread softly! The cold silver moon
Drowns your bright buckles and laps at your shoon!
For earth is a bowl with the stars on its rim –
The night-gods have filled it with wine to the brim,
A faun in the grasses lies piping a tune –
Come drink, pretty lady, the wine of the moon!
'Tis nymph-feet have trodden your draught from the flowers
That open strange petals in perilous hours –
The hot perfumes quiver, the bright bubbles shine –
Come drink, pretty lady, of Arcady's wine!
As moths of the night flutter close to the bowers
And honey-sweet lips of carnivorous flowers
Your dreams hover nigh in the dangerous draught!
Ah hear! In the darkness, the faun-music laughed.
The world is a chalice with stars on its rim,
The clear silver light sparkles cold at the brim –
Lady, beware! Lest your gay-winging soul
Fall and be drowned in the blind silver bowl.
[Vol 2/19]
Foxglove
'And there she is, the painted mime,'
Cries daubed Pierrot, 'my Columbine.
Sometimes green-golden, like the woods,
Purple and russet, as such hoods
Wanderers wore, ere Lady Fashion
Forgot the crackling hues of passion.
Yet sometimes I am half afraid,
Watching her starlit like a glade,
Watching her silvered like the moon,
A fruit, and not for plucking soon.
By whiles she takes her tambourine,
And then the tavern oafs have seen
At once the trull, the silvern spell
Old Merlin knew, and knew too well.
Ah, foxglove she, yet floating flower
White on the mere, beyond my power ...
And wizard help whose heart is set
On that lost moonglade named Pierrette.'
[AU 21]
THE SECRET CHILD
A Daughter to her Mother
I don't quite understand: I've played with dolls,
And mothered them, like other little girls,
And almost loved their smiling painted lips,
Unanswering eyes, and wealth of ordered curls.
Perhaps, if those curved lips had laughed aloud,
The little fingers tightened in my hand,
The little feet walked – and away from me –
Then I might understand.
And you don't understand. You've played with dreams –
Soft, wistful things, from your true world apart –
And never felt the crystal starlight swords
Pierce, venom-tipped with longing, through your heart.
You've blown a kiss to the white road outside
And turned back to your knitting and the fire,
Smiling to think of it – the road which runs
To the wild purple hills of my desire.
And all poor shadows of the dreams I love
Fall from you at a careless child's caress –
A child whose eyes look past you. Did we know,
We two, each other's bitter loneliness?
Soft firelight, glowing in your little room,
Shines on your face, that pleads with me to stay –
And outside, in the starlight-scattered gloom,
My lost road wanders half the world away.
[St C/5]
Journey's End
Does night come to a strange little wood
Where grey leaves rustle, talking together,
And winds steal in from the end of the world,
Bringing the scents of dying heather?
Is lost happiness hiding there,
In a little brown house, where scarlet shells
Line the grey of the garden's paths,
Lit with blossoming foxglove bells?
Is it there, with the gold dawn's breaking,
Old sad folk grow happy again
And silver ripples of song are waking
Where the sweet brown thrush, his nest forsaking,
Sings away the shadows of pain?
Is it there, in the dear still gloaming,
Far in the land of Heart's Desire,
Little bare feet, all cold with roaming,
Tiptoe up to the nursery fire?
And the dreams come back to empty hearts,
Old hard sorrows are cried away –
Lips find lips – 'Dear heart!' 'Dear heart!'
And the ways of life, that stumbled apart,
Meet, and are one, in the gold of day.
[Xmas 26/4]
Fragment
'Dare you? Dare you?' the blackbird sings,
'Dare you?' the wild notes ring again,
Come back to the land of forgotten things,
To the land of forgotten pain –
To the golden land of the broken dreams,
Land o' the light of youth that gleams
Over your path again.
Oh, the white rose bends in a rapture of prayer
And the red in a crimson rapture of pain,
Golden roses are passing fair,
And their perfume, spilled on the wine-sweet air,
Welcomes you home again.
[Xmas 26/29]
To C.R.H.
Life said 'No blossom could eclipse
The white bud of his tiny lips
And so I love these flower-hands
Whose petals never shall enclose
I shall not tint their palms with rose.
In gardens of the lovelier lands
My snowdrop-child shall find the sun,
His little feet shall learn to run
On rose-white ways, where by no thorn
May baby-tenderness be torn.'
[St C/21]
Old-fashioned
'You must have a marriage, and a death, and a birth
Then your house will be a home' you said to me;
And I wondered – folded hands, sword-agony and mirth
Ere my doves of dream could nest in sanctuary.
All the roses in my garden coloured red,
Old-fashioned! 'See! He kissed her! She'll be wed –
And her house will always listen for the shy steps of a bride,
Her tall young lover walking by her side!'
In my little room at evening-blue I'd sit –
But the silken things I made were never worn,
Tiny frocks and bonnets, scarlet shoes, I used to knit
For the roseleaf baby waiting to be born.
And the shadows gathered close, and seemed to talk
Of the day when first he'd stand, and try to walk.
He had darkling curls, and eyes of darkest blue –
The baby dream that followed after you!
All the schoolboy winds are hushed at eventide –
A quietness has kissed the lips of pain
In the little scented chamber where you died –
You who forgot – but came to me again!
Oh, the things I might have told you long ago!
Twenty years – twenty years, walking slow!
Do you think our house will make believe they're true,
Those restless dreams of dream – the child, and you?
[St C/40]
In Memory
Only one gleaming year ago –
Birth of daffodils, flight of snow!
You who are quiet, can you guess
How spring's awakening loveliness
Startles like golden sudden song
Boughs that were leafless overlong?
Darkly in the dew-soaked earth
Small forgotten seeds give birth
To slender-poisèd radiant things,
Petals light as lifted wings
And the linnet in the nest
Has little wings against her breast
Opening to sunshot rain
Wild hyacinths are blue again –
Dear, somewhere your dark tree of Death
Has little leaves, and blossometh –
Petals born in Paradise
Brush dewy lips against my eyes
(Such their perfume, spike-nard rare,
Who finds it shall forget despair).
Dear, not alone the spring-fires burn
Through sapling trees and soft-curled fern
Quickened with longings, stirred by pain,
The soul bears purple bloom again!
[St C/50]
The Child
A face has haunted me tonight,
Not with any sorrow, nor aught
Written therein by laughter or tears
Or the pale radiance of thought.
A child's face pressed against the arm
Of one who wore a tattered dress
A woman whose undreaming eyes
Had learned no more than weariness.
Old hands, brown fingers, touched a face
Soft as new petals. Tired eyes
Seemed scarce to see the tiny smile
At some remembered Paradise.
No ways of destiny flamed before
The tenderness of little feet –
Only the furtive houses crouched
Like panthers in an evil street.
Footsteps hurrying by. The night
Had freed the jungle from its bars
A hot miasmic perfume wrapped
Houses huddled against the stars.
Old hands, old eyes, that only knew
Bewilderment, wrongs coldly done,
They held a child as fair in sleep
As Lady Mary's little one.
Feet shapely for a wilderness!
I knew why Christ of Heaven did please
To dwell with burdened folk, and be
Highway himself, for such as these.
[Vol 2/10]
MASKS 1
Hospital
In that white, unending wall
Little dwarfish echoes dwell –
Who would think that things so small,
Could so mock a man in Hell?
If I say the smallest thing,
If one ghost escapes my brain,
All night long, they sit again
Whispering – whispering.
Say I, 'She is walking now
Where the branches, bending low,
Flake with apple-bloom her brow:
Why should she, the swift, walk slow?
She forgot so long ago
That carved heart upon the bough!
Go your ways, youth-sandalled feet –
Half, perhaps, remembering
Lad's love, in the twilight sweet –
But a man's a stronger thing!'
All night long the echoes leant
Whispering words that were not meant.
'Or' I say, 'When she shall see
Dim boughs of a blossomed tree,
She'll remember, being young!'
And a little venomed tongue
Laughed and laughed, the livelong night
From behind the shaded light.
'Or' I say, 'if she were here –
Brook-brown eyes and tawny hair –
Like a bush-flower, straight and tall,
Whose dew shines, but does not fall,
One small fawn-gloved hand would reach
Those still depths not meant for speech.
But she follows, follows still
Through grey ti-tree, o'er the hill,
That strong eagle, her wind-lover.
Oh small feet! Must you discover
Those lost sunsets whispered long
In your golden eagle's song?
Twilight purpled hills, and trees
Whispering through eternities?
And the wet face of the rain?
('He will never walk again.')
Oh small feet! Are you so bold?
And your lover's lips are cold –
Old as God he is!' And then
All the little echo-men
Scream with laughter. Whispering
Small metallic voices ring
Till the moonstone blue of morn
Cradled in dark pines is born
And the day is here again –
Thank God, for the lips of pain!
[St C/3]
Hills
I've come back to you, hills –
All your wet gorse gleams around me
And your tall white sentinels
The mists, have found me.
So quietly they have come,
From rain-bowed grasses creeping –
And their lips are cold ... I know
They have been weeping.
One can be tired, hills,
And still look so defiant!
I lie cradled close
In the arms of a friendly giant –
Wise old hill-giant, tender,
Century-tall and strong,
Who knows of the catch in laughter –
Of the break in song.
Of the break in song.
Just for a moment, hills,
Hold me – hold me –
Let your calm white quietness
Of mists enfold me!
Then I'll go back to the world
And walk again
In the little ways and narrow
That are made by men.
I'll come back to you, hills,
Once, when I'm old
To your wild sweet scents of gorse
And its elfin gold –
And the tall white mists shall see
A child on a giant's breast
Who has found her strange way home,
And at last, rest.
[St C/8]
(Continues...)
Excerpted from Young Knowledge by Michele Leggot. Copyright © 2003 Auckland University Press. Excerpted by permission of Auckland University Press.
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