Selections from the Best Poems of 1923

By Strong, L. A. G. (Leonard Alfred George)

Book Id: WPLBN0000708111
Format Type: PDF eBook
File Size: 145,022 KB.
Reproduction Date: 2007

Title:	Selections from the Best Poems of 1923
Author:	Strong, L. A. G. (Leonard Alfred George)
Volume:
Language:	English
Subject:	Fiction, Poetry, Verse drama
Collections:	Poetry Collection
Historic Publication Date:
Publisher:	World Public Library Association


Citation APA MLA Chicago Strong, L. A. (n.d.). Selections from the Best Poems of 1923. Retrieved from http://gutenberg.us/

Description
Poetry

Excerpt
Excerpt: Goodbye! // COME, thrust your hands in the warm earth // And feel her strength through all your veins; // Breathe her full odors, taste her mouth, // Which laughs away imagined pains; // Touch her life's womb, yet know // This substance makes your grave also. // Shrink not; your flesh is no more sweet // Than flowers which daily blow and die; // Nor are your mein and dress so neat, // Nor half so pure your lucid eye; // And, yet, by flowers and earth I swear // You're neat and pure and sweet and fair. // Richard Aldington // Rudkin // RUDKIN was one who cattle sold, // Laughed loud, talked bold; // Children got, drank at inns, // Nor thought much of his sins. // Stout his legs, broad his back; // To live and thrive he had the knack. // All who went out, all who came in, // By Threckington, knew stout Rudkin. // Long he's been dead; his name has gone // Clean out of mind at Threckington; // If one should ask for Rudkin there // The village folk would stare and stare. // Rudkin is dead; dead as Queen Anne: // Hangs on my wall his warming-pan; // In hall hard by, solemn and clear, // Ticks the tall clock he used to hear; // Little Miss Wright, all unaware, // Reads her paper in his chair. // Down by the bridge the parapet // Is still chipped where his wain upset; // By the old barn there's an old pear // When he was wed he planted there. // His drover's dog was very like // Our butcher's cur: a mongrel tyke; // He had a bull with a crooked horn, // A heifer like it I saw this morn. // Down at The George in market-place // There's a bold wench wears his bold face. // Kenneth H. Ashley // Care // Care now lies // Where care was not, // Shoved in the corner // But not forgot - // Care, in the corner // I would call Laughter // Out of the trees; // But Laughter has bird eyes, // And Laughter sees // Care, in the corner. // Janet Norris Bangs // Magnets // A FAR look in absorbed eyes, unaware // Of what some gazer thrills to gather there; // A happy voice, singing to itself apart, // That pulses new blood through a listener's heart; // Old fortitude; and, 'mid an hour of dread, // The scorn of all odds in a proud young head;- // These are themselves, and being but what they are, // Of others' praise or pity have no care, // Yet still are magnets to another's need. // Invisibly as wind, blowing stray seed, // Life breathes on life, though ignorant what it brings, // And spirit touches spirit on the strings // Where music is: courage from courage glows // In secret; shy powers to themselves unclose; // And the most solitary hope, that gray // Patience has sister'd, ripens far away // In young bosoms. Oh, we have failed and failed, // And never knew if we or the world ailed, // Clouded and thwarted; yet perhaps the best // Of all we do and dream of lives unguessed. // Laurence Binyon // City Girl // 2 // BENEATH the barren artifice of red // That hides a fertile freshness on your face // I see the hypocritical embrace // Of courtesan and virgin, each in dread // Of yielding to the other, while your mouth // Reveals their secret of uneasiness. // Your mind has listened to a northern stress: // Your heart has heard old rumours from the South. // This conflict, with its plaintive undertones, // Is like an idle phantom to your soul // Whose clear aloofness sometimes sears your eyes. // The sensual games that move your youthful bones // Are still for moments, while the distant goal // Of whispering horizons lures your sighs. // Maxwell Bodenheim // Wistaria // CLOUDS dream and disappear; // Waters dream in a rainbow and are gone; // Fire-dreams change with the sun // Or when a poppy closes; // But now is the time of year // For the dark earth, one by one, // To show her slower dreams. And nothing she has ever done // Has given more ease // To her perplexities // Than the dreaming of dreams like these: // Not irises, // Not any spear // Of lilies or cup of roses, // But these pale, purple images, // As if, from willows or from pepper trees, // Shadows were glimmering on Buddha's knees. // Witter Bynner // Fires // The little fires that Nature lights - // The scilla's lamp, the daffodil - // She quenches, when of stormy nights // Her anger whips the hill. // The fires she lifts against the cloud - // The irised bow, the burning tree - // She batters down with curses loud, // Nor cares that death should be. // The fire she kindles in the soul - // The poet's mood, the rebel's thought - // She cannot master, for their coal // In other mines is wrought. // Joseph Campbell // 3 // The Widow // GRIEF hath pacified her face; // Even hope might share so still a place; // Yet, on the silence of her heart, // Haply, if a strange footfall start, // Or a chance word of ecstasy // Cry through dim cloistered memory, // Into her eyes her soul will steal // To gaze into the irrevocable - // As if death had not power to keep // One who has loved her long asleep. // Now all things lovely she looks on // Seem lovely in oblivion; // And all things mute what shall not be // Richer than any melody. // Her narrow hands, like birds that make // A nest for some old instinct's sake, // Have hollowed a refuge for her face - // A narrow and a quiet place - // Where, far from the world's light, she may // See clearer what is passed away. // And only little children know // Through what dark gates her smile may go. // Walter De La Mare // nobody loses all the time // nobody loses all the time // i had an uncle named // Sol who was a born failure and // nearly everybody said he should have gone // into vaudeville perhaps because my Uncle Sol could // sing McCann He Was A Diver on Xmas Eve like Hell Itself which // may or may not account for the fact that my Uncle // Sol indulged in that possibly most inexcusable // of all to use a highfalootin phrase // luxuries that is or to // wit farming and be // it needlessly // added // my Uncle Sol's farm // failed because the chickens // ate the vegetables so // my Uncle Sol had a // chicken farm till the // skunks ate the chickens when // my Uncle Sol // had a skunk farm but // the skunks caught cold and // died and so // 4 // my Uncle Sol imitated the // skunks in a subtle manner // or by drowning himself in the watertank // but somebody who'd given my Uncle Sol a Victor // Victrola and records while he lived presented to // him upon the auspicious occasion of his decease a // scruptious not to mention splendiferous funeral with // tall boys in black gloves and flowers and everything and // i remember we all cried like the Missouri // when my Uncle Sol's coffin lurched because // somebody pressed a button // (and down went // my Uncle // Sol // and started a worm farm) // e. e. cummings // At Ithaca // OVER and back, // the long waves crawl // and track the sand with foam; // night darkens, and the sea // takes on that desperate tone // of dark that wives put on // when all their love is done. // Over and back, // the tangled thread falls slack, // over and up and on; // over and all is sewn; // now while I bind the end, // I wish some fiery friend // would sweep impetuously // these fingers from the loom. // My weary thoughts // play traitor to my soul, // just as the toil is over; // swift while the woof is whole, (sic) // turn now, my spirit, swift, // and tear the pattern there, // the flowers so deftly wrought, // the borders of sea blue, // the sea-blue coast of home. // The web was over-fair, // that web of pictures there, // enchantments that I thought // he had, that I had lost; // weaving his happiness // within the stitching frame, // weaving his fire and frame, // I thought my work was done, // 5 // I prayed that only one // of those that I had spurned // might stoop and conquer this // long waiting with a kiss. // But each time that I see // my work so beautifully // inwoven and would keep // the picture and the whole, // Athene steels my soul. // Slanting across my brain, // I see as shafts of rain // his chariot and his shafts, // I see the arrows fall, // I see the lord who moves // like Hector lord of love, // I see him matched with fair // bright rivals, and I see // those lesser rivals flee. // H.D. // Megalosaurus // A MONSTER like a mountain, leathern limbed, // With eyes of sluggish ore and claws of stone, // He heaved his thunder-throated body, rimmed // By marsh fires human eyes have never known. // A monolith carved out of savage night, // He hid in his impenetrable hide // Muscle and blood, and nerves to sense delight // And agony that tore him when he died. // The clumsy terror of his frame has gone // The way of his blind, simple savagery. // Out of his casual bones men build the dawn // That bore and bred such brutish game as he. // But still endures his dull, confounding shape: // In wars of the wise offspring of the ape. // Babette Deutsch // The Town Rabbit in the Country // THREE hours ago in Seven Dials // She lived awaiting all the trials // That haunt her race, but now shall be // Freed on the lawn to play with me. // In the dim shop her eyes were grey // And languid; but in this bright day // To a full circle each dilates, // And turns the blue of Worcester plates // In the unaccustomed sun; she stares // At strange fresh leaves; the passing airs, // Outstretching from her box's brink, // She gulps as if her nose could drink. // 6 // Now o'er the edge she scrambles slow, // Too pleased to know which way to go - // Half dazed with pleasure she explores // This sunny, eatable out-of-doors. // Then shakes and tosses up her ears // Like plumes upon bold cavaliers - // The dust flies out as catherine-wheels // Throw sparks as round she twirls and reels - // Her spine it quivers like an eel's - // Over her head she flings her heels, // Comes down askew, then waltzes till // She must reverse or else feel ill - // Reverses, then lies down and pants // As one who has no further wants, // Staring with half-believing eyes // Like souls that wake in Paradise. // Camilla Doyle // Emperor Tang - Skeptic // CLOSER than my body's shadow // Follows the blind nameless One, // Carrying in his tightened, yellow fist // Time, the thin sputtering candle, // And in his swollen cheeks // Death, the grey wind. // So fill and refill my deep, golden horn // With the strongest wine, // O wise men of China, // Before declaiming in magnificent verse // My immortality, // That I may nod, // My eyes glittering with dreams, // And believe - // Paul Eldridge // Serenade in Firelight // from Five Serenades // SIT here where I could touch your hand // If that should be my sudden will: // Among the shadows where we wait // I shall not stir. // Sit here where I could feel your lips // If they should breathe the faintest sound: // As the slow-moving midnight slips // I ask no speech. // Sit here where I could lay my head // Wearily down upon your knees: // I shall sit upright as I watch // The tangled fire. // Arthur Davison Ficke // 7 // An Epilogue // GHOSTS of my fathers, while you keep // On ghostly hills your ghostly sleep, // If for a moment you should turn // The pages of this book to learn // What trade your offspring's taken to, // Forgive me that my flocks and herds // Are only barren bleating words. // Wilfred Wilson Gibson // Earth and Sea // IT does me good to see the ships // Back safely from the deep sea main; // To see the slender mizzen tips // And all the ropes that stood the strain; // To hear the old men shout, Ahoy! // Glad-hearted at the journey done, // Who fix the favourite to the buoy // Of sea and wind and moon and sun. // To meet, when sails are lashed to spars, // The men for whom earth's free from care, // And heaven a clock with certain stars, // And hell a word by which to swear. // Oliver St. John Gogarty // Epitaph on a Vagabond // CARELESS I lived, accepting day by day // The lavish benison of sun and rain, // Watching the changing seasons pass away // And come again. // Now the great harvester has stilled my breath; // In this cold house I neither hear nor see. // Though in my life I never thought of death, // Death thought of me. // Alexander Gray // Ephemera // THERE is a woman who makes my eye // A place of shadows, as now and then // I see her dimly going by, // And faintly coming back again. // She moves as many others move; // There is no uttrance in her tread // To tempt an echo, nor to prove // What other footsteps have not said. // As often as she comes and goes // She is forgotten, as now and then // The wind is forgotten until it blows // 8 // A blur of dust down the street again. // Hazel Hall // Chapter Heading // FOR we have thought the longer thoughts // And gone the shorter way. // And we have danced to devil's tunes // Shivering home to pray; // To serve one master in the night, // Another in the day. // Ernest Hemingway // Sky Line // A WORKMAN climbed a lofty tower, // None beside him being able; // Gripped and struggled half an hour // Binding up a broken cable; // Paused to glimpse the toy-house town, // Spat, swung outward, and came down...