Edith Sitwell

Turn again, turn again, Goose Clothilda, Goosie Jane. Bright wooden waves of people creak From houses built with coloured straws Of heat; Dean Pasppus’ long nose snores Harsh as a hautbois, marshy-weak. The wooden waves of people creak Through the fields all water-sleek. And in among the straws of light Those bumpkin hautbois-sounds take flight. Whence he lies snoring like the moon Clownish-white all afternoon. Beneath the trees’ arsenical Sharp woodwind tunes; heretical— Blown like the wind’s mane (Creaking woodenly again). His wandering thoughts escape like geese Till he, their gooseherd, sets up chase, And clouds of wool join the bright race For scattered old simplicities.

Turn, turn again, Ape’s blood in each vein! The people that pass Seem castles of glass, The old and the good Giraffes of the blue wood, The soldier, the nurse, Wooden-face and a curse, Are shadowed with plumage Like birds, by the gloomage. Blond hair like a clown’s The music floats—drowns The creaking of ropes, The breaking of hopes, The wheezing, the old, Like harmoniums scold; Go to Babylon, Rome, The brain-cells called home, The grave, new Jerusalem— Wrinkled Methusalem! From our floating hair Derived the first fair And queer inspiration Of music, the nation Of bright-plumed trees And harpy-shrill breeze . . . *  *  *  * Turn, turn again, Ape’s blood in each vein!

Houses red as flower of bean, Flickering leaves and shadows lean! Pantalone, like a parrot, Sat and grumbled in the garret— Sat and growled and grumbled till Moon upon the window-sill Like a red geranium Scented his bald cranium. Said Brighella, meaning well: “Pack your box and—go to Hell! Heat will cure your rheumatism!” . . . Silence crowned this optimism— Not a sound and not a wail: But the fire (lush leafy vales) Watched the angry feathers fly. Pantalone ’gan to cry— Could not,would not, pack his box! Shadows (curtseying hens and cocks) Pecking in the attic gloom Tried to smother his tail-plume . . . Till a cockscomb candle-flame Crowing loudly, died: Dawn came.

I. Springing Jack Green wooden leaves clap light away, Severely practical, as they Shelter the children candy-pale, The chestnut-candles flicker, fail . . . The showman’s face is cubed clear as The shapes reflected in a glass Of water—(glog, glut, a ghost’s speech Fumbling for space from each to each). The fusty showman fumbles, must Fit in a particle of dust The universe, for fear it gain Its freedom from my cube of brain. Yet dust bears seeds that grow to grace Behind my crude-striped wooden face As I, a puppet tinsel-pink Leap on my springs, learn how to think— Till like the trembling golden stalk Of some long-petalled star, I walk Through the dark heavens, and the dew Falls on my eyes and sense thrills through. II. The Ape Watches “Aunt Sally” The apples are an angel’s meat; The shining dark leaves make clear sweet The juice; green wooden fruits alway Fall on these flowers as white as day— (Clear angel-face on hairy stalk: Soul grown from flesh, an ape’s young talk!) And in this green and lovely ground The Fair, world-like, turns round and round And bumpkins throw their pence to shed Aunt Sally’s wooden clear-striped head.— I do not care if men should throw Round sun and moon to make me go— As bright as gold and silver pence . . . They cannot drive their black shade hence!