Georgian Poetry 1918-19 Part 8

THE HERD

The roaming sheep, forbidden to roam far, Were stayed within the shadow of his eye.

The sheep-dog on that unseen shadow's edge Moved, halted, barked, while the tall shepherd stood Unmoving, leaned upon a sa.r.s.en stone, Looking at the rain that curtained the bare hills And drew the smoking curtain near and near!-- Tawny, bush-faced, with cloak and staff, and flask And bright bra.s.s-ribb'd umbrella, standing stone Against the veinless, senseless sa.r.s.en stone.

The Roman Road hard by, the green Ridge Way, Not older seemed, nor calmer the long barrows Of bones and memories of ancient days Than the tall shepherd with his craft of days Older than Roman or the oldest caveman, When, in the generation of all living, Sheep and kine flocked in the Aryan valley and The first herd with his voice and skill of water Fleetest of foot, led them into green pastures, From perished pastures to new green. I saw The herdsmen everywhere about the world, And herdsmen of all time, fierce, lonely, wise, Herds of Arabia and Syria And Thessaly, and longer-winter'd climes; And this lone herd, ages before England was, Pelt-clad, and armed with flint-tipped ashen sap, Watching his flocks, and those far flocks of stars Slow moving as the heavenly shepherd willed And at dawn shut into the sunny fold.

WILFRID WILSON GIBSON

WINGS

As a blue-necked mallard alighting in a pool Among marsh-marigolds and splashing wet Green leaves and yellow blooms, like jewels set In bright, black mud, with clear drops crystal-cool, Bringing keen savours of the sea and stir Of windy s.p.a.ces where wild sunsets flame To that dark inland d.y.k.e, the thought of her Into my brooding stagnant being came.

And all my senses quickened into life, Tingling and glittering, and the salt and fire Sang through my singing blood in eager strife Until through crystal airs we seemed to be Soaring together, one fleet-winged desire Of windy sunsets and the wandering sea.

THE PARROTS

Somewhere, somewhen I've seen, But where or when I'll never know, Parrots of shrilly green With crests of shriller scarlet flying Out of black cedars as the sun was dying Against cold peaks of snow.

From what forgotten life Of other worlds I cannot tell Flashes that screeching strife; Yet the shrill colour and shrill crying Sing through my blood and set my heart replying And jangling like a bell.

THE CAKEWALK

In smoky lamplight of a Smyrna Cafe, He saw them, seven solemn negroes dancing, With faces rapt and out-thrust bellies prancing In a slow solemn ceremonial cakewalk, Dancing and prancing to the sombre tom-tom Thumped by a crookbacked grizzled negro squatting.

And as he watched ... within the steamy twilight Of swampy forest in rank greenness rotting, That sombre tom-tom at his heartstrings strumming Set all his sinews twitching, and a singing Of cold fire through his blood--and he was dancing Among his fellows in the dank green twilight With naked, oiled, bronze-gleaming bodies swinging In a rapt holy everlasting cakewalk For evermore in slow procession prancing.

DRIFTWOOD

Black spars of driftwood burn to peac.o.c.k flames, Sea-emeralds and sea-purples and sea-blues, And all the innumerable ever-changing hues That haunt the changeless deeps but have no names, Flicker and spire in our enchanted sight: And as we gaze, the unsearchable mystery, The unfathomed cold salt magic of the sea, Shines clear before us in the quiet night.

We know the secret that Ulysses sought, That moonstruck mariners since time began s.n.a.t.c.hed at a drowning hazard---strangely brought To our homekeeping hearts in drifting spars We chanced to kindle under the cold stars-- The secret in the ocean-heart of man.

QUIET

Only the footprints of the partridge run Over the billowy drifts on the mountain-side; And now on level wings the brown birds glide Following the snowy curves, and in the sun Bright birds of gold above the stainless white They move, and as the pale blue shadows move, With them my heart glides on in golden flight Over the hills of quiet to my love.

Storm-shaken, racked with terror through the long Tempestuous night, in the quiet blue of morn Love drinks the crystal airs, and peace newborn Within his troubled heart, on wings aglow Soars into rapture, as from the quiet snow The golden birds; and out of silence, song.

REVEILLE

Still bathed in its moonlight slumber, the little white house by the cedar Stands silent against the red dawn; And nothing I know of who sleeps there, to the travail of day yet unwakened, Behind the blue curtains undrawn:

But I dream as we march down the roadway, ringing loud and white-rimed in the moonlight, Of a little dark house on a hill Wherein when the battle is over, to the rapture of day yet unwakened, We shall slumber as dreamless and still.

ROBERT GRAVES

A BALLAD OF NURSERY RHYME

Strawberries that in gardens grow Are plump and juicy fine, But sweeter far as wise men know Spring from the woodland vine.

No need for bowl or silver spoon, Sugar or spice or cream, Has the wild berry plucked in June Beside the trickling stream.

One such to melt at the tongue's root, Confounding taste with scent, Beats a full peck of garden fruit: Which points my argument.

May sudden justice overtake And snap the froward pen, That old and palsied poets shake Against the minds of men;

Blasphemers trusting to hold caught In far-flung webs of ink The utmost ends of human thought, Till nothing's left to think.

But may the gift of heavenly peace And glory for all time Keep the boy Tom who tending geese First made the nursery rhyme.

By the brookside one August day, Using the sun for clock, Tom whiled the languid hours away Beside his scattering flock,

Carving with a sharp pointed stone On a broad slab of slate The famous lives of Jumping Joan, Dan Fox and Greedy Kate;

Rhyming of wolves and bears and birds, Spain, Scotland, Babylon, That sister Kate might learn the words To tell to Toddling John.

But Kate, who could not stay content To learn her lesson pat, New beauty to the rough lines lent By changing this or that;