Stevie Smith

Was he married, did he try To support as he grew less fond of them Wife and family? No, He never suffered such a blow. Did he feel pointless, feeble and distrait, Unwanted by everyone and in the way? From his cradle he was purposeful, His bent strong and his mind full. Did he love people very much Yet find them die one day? He did not love in the human way. Did he ask how long it would go on, Wonder if Death could be counted on for an end? He did not feel like this, He had a future of bliss. Did he never feel strong Pain for being wrong? He was not wrong, he was right, He suffered from others’, not his own, spite. But there is no suffering like having made a mistake Because of being of an inferior make. He was not inferior, He was superior. He knew then that power corrupts but some must govern? His thoughts were different. Did he lack friends? Worse, Think it was for his fault, not theirs? He did not lack friends, He had disciples he moulded to his ends. Did he feel over-handicapped sometimes, yet must draw even? How could he feel like this? He was the King of Heaven. ...find a sudden brightness one day in everything Because a mood had been conquered, or a sin? I tell you, he did not sin. Do only human beings suffer from the irritation I have mentioned? learn too that being comical Does not ameliorate the desperation? Only human beings feel this, It is because they are so mixed. All human beings should have a medal, A god cannot carry it, he is not able. A god is Man’s doll, you ass, He makes him up like this on purpose. He might have made him up worse. He often has, in the past. To choose a god of love, as he did and does, Is a little move then? Yes, it is. A larger one will be when men Love love and hate hate but do not deify them? It will be a larger one.

Coleridge received the Person from Porlock And ever after called him a curse, Then why did he hurry to let him in? He could have hid in the house. It was not right of Coleridge in fact it was wrong (But often we all do wrong) As the truth is I think he was already stuck With Kubla Khan. He was weeping and wailing: I am finished, finished, I shall never write another word of it, When along comes the Person from Porlock And takes the blame for it. It was not right, it was wrong, But often we all do wrong. * May we inquire the name of the Person from Porlock? Why, Porson, didn’t you know? He lived at the bottom of Porlock Hill So had a long way to go, He wasn’t much in the social sense Though his grandmother was a Warlock, One of the Rutlandshire ones I fancy And nothing to do with Porlock, And he lived at the bottom of the hill as I said And had a cat named Flo, And had a cat named Flo. I long for the Person from Porlock To bring my thoughts to an end, I am becoming impatient to see him I think of him as a friend, Often I look out of the window Often I run to the gate I think, He will come this evening, I think it is rather late. I am hungry to be interrupted For ever and ever amen O Person from Porlock come quickly And bring my thoughts to an end. * I felicitate the people who have a Person from Porlock To break up everything and throw it away Because then there will be nothing to keep them And they need not stay. * Why do they grumble so much? He comes like a benison They should be glad he has not forgotten them They might have had to go on. * These thoughts are depressing I know. They are depressing, I wish I was more cheerful, it is more pleasant, Also it is a duty, we should smile as well as submitting To the purpose of One Above who is experimenting With various mixtures of human character which goes best, All is interesting for him it is exciting, but not for us. There I go again. Smile, smile, and get some work to do Then you will be practically unconscious without positively having to go.

Tender only to one Tender and true The petals swing To my fingering Is it you, or you, or you? Tender only to one I do not know his name And the friends who fall To the petals’ call May think my love to blame. Tender only to one This petal holds a clue The face it shows But too well knows Who I am tender to. Tender only to one, Last petal’s latest breath Cries out aloud From the icy shroud His name, his name is Death.

The lions who ate the Christians on the sands of the arena By indulging native appetites played what has now been seen a Not entirely negligible part In consolidating at the very start The position of the Early Christian Church. Initiatory rites are always bloody And the lions, it appears From contemporary art, made a study Of dyeing Coliseum sands a ruddy Liturgically sacrificial hue And if the Christians felt a little blue— Well people being eaten often do. Theirs was the death, and theirs the crown undying, A state of things which must be satisfying. My point which up to this has been obscured is that it was the lions who procured By chewing up blood gristle flesh and bone The martyrdoms on which the Church has grown. I only write this poem because I thought it rather looked As if the part the lions played was being overlooked. By lions’ jaws great benefits and blessings were begotten And so our debt to Lionhood must never be forgotten.

There is far too much of the suburban classes Spiritually not geographically speaking. They’re asses. Menacing the greatness of our beloved England, they lie Propagating their kind in an eightroomed stye. Now I have a plan which I will enfold (There’s this to be said for them, they do as they’re told) Then tell them their country’s in mortal peril They believed it before and again will not cavil Put it in caption form firm and slick If they see it in print it is bound to stick: ‘Your King and your Country need you Dead’ You see the idea? Well, let it spread. Have a suitable drug under string and label Free for every Registered Reader’s table. For the rest of the gang who are not patriotic I’ve another appeal they’ll discover hypnotic: Tell them it’s smart to be dead and won’t hurt And they’ll gobble up drug as they gobble up dirt.

My life is vile I hate it so I’ll wait awhile And then I’ll go. Why wait at all? Hope springs alive, Good may befall I yet may thrive. It is because I can’t make up my mind If God is good, impotent or unkind.

Why is the word pretty so underrated? In November the leaf is pretty when it falls The stream grows deep in the woods after rain And in the pretty pool the pike stalks He stalks his prey, and this is pretty too, The prey escapes with an underwater flash But not for long, the great fish has him now The pike is a fish who always has his prey And this is pretty. The water rat is pretty His paws are not webbed, he cannot shut his nostrils As the otter can and the beaver, he is torn between The land and water. Not ‘torn’, he does not mind. The owl hunts in the evening and it is pretty The lake water below him rustles with ice There is frost coming from the ground, in the air mist All this is pretty, it could not be prettier. Yes, it could always be prettier, the eye abashes It is becoming an eye that cannot see enough, Out of the wood the eye climbs. This is prettier A field in the evening, tilting up. The field tilts to the sky. Though it is late The sky is lighter than the hill field All this looks easy but really it is extraordinary Well, it is extraordinary to be so pretty. And it is careless, and that is always pretty This field, this owl, this pike, this pool are careless, As Nature is always careless and indifferent Who sees, who steps, means nothing, and this is pretty. So a person can come along like a thief—pretty!— Stealing a look, pinching the sound and feel, Lick the icicle broken from the bank And still say nothing at all, only cry pretty. Cry pretty, pretty, pretty and you’ll be able Very soon not even to cry pretty And so be delivered entirely from humanity This is prettiest of all, it is very pretty.

Highlight Actions Enable or disable annotations Nobody heard him, the dead man, But still he lay moaning: I was much further out than you thought And not waving but drowning. Poor chap, he always loved larking larking Playing tricks, kidding, fooling around. And now he’s dead It must have been too cold for him his heart gave way, They said. Oh, no no no, it was too cold always (Still the dead one lay moaning) I was much too far out all my life And not waving but drowning.

I was always a thoughtful youngster, Said the lady on the omnibus, I remember Father used to say, You are more thoughtful than us. I was sensitive too, the least thing Upset me so much, I used to cry if a fly Stuck in the hatch. Mother always said, Elsie is too good, There’ll never be another like Elsie, Touch wood. I liked to be alone, Sitting on the garden path, My brother said he’d never seen a Picture more like Faith in the Arena. They were kindly people, my people, I could not help being different, And I think it was good for me Mixing in a different element. The poor lady now burst out crying And I saw her friend was not a friend but a nurse For she said, Cheer up duckie the next stop is ours, They got off at Northumberland House. This great House of the Percies Is now a lunatic asylum, But over the gate there still stands The great Northumberland Lion. This family animal’s tail Is peculiar in that it is absolutely straight, And straight as a bar it stood out to drop after them As they went through the gate. November 1964

In the flame of the flickering fire The sins of my soul are few And the thoughts in my head are the thoughts of a bed With a solitary view. But the eye of eternal consciousness Must blink as a bat blinks bright Or ever the thoughts in my head be stilled On the brink of eternal night. Oh feed to the golden fish his egg Where he floats in his captive bowl, To the cat his kind from the womb born blind, And to the Lord my soul.