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Title: God Save the King
Author: Howard, Brian [Brian Christian de Claiborne] (1905-1958)
Date of first publication: 1931
Edition used as base for this ebook:
   Paris: Hours Press, 1931
   (first edition)
Date first posted: 11 September 2009
Date last updated: 11 September 2009
Project Gutenberg Canada ebook #382

This ebook was produced by: David T. Jones
& the Online Distributed Proofreading Team
at http://www.pgdpcanada.net




_GOD SAVE THE KING

And Other Poems

by

Brian Howard_



150 COPIES OF THIS BOOK
SET BY HAND AND PRIVATELY
PRINTED ON HAND-PRESS
EACH COPY HAS BEEN
SIGNED BY THE AUTHOR

This is No

[Illustration: Signature--Brian Howard]


GOD

SAVE

THE

KING


BRIAN

HOWARD


HOURS PRESS

[Illustration: 15, _Rue Gungaud_, 15]

PARIS 6^e


_To My Mother_


CONTENTS

_Young

God Save The King

A Small Crucifixion

Homage to Tennyson

Father and Son

She

The Listening Child

The Secret

Self

Branch

I Remember I Remember

Saying Good-bye to a Phoenix

Love Letter

Entends la douce nuit qui marche

Always

The figure

Up_




J'ai vu des archipels sidraux! et des les
Dont les cieux dlirants sont ouverts au vogueur:
Est-ce en ces nuits sans fond que tu dors et t'exiles,
Million d'oiseaux d'or,  future vigueur?

                              Rimbaud.




Young


Loops of red gauze, the music swoops
        down the glass passage in the wall.
Black, rolling hats on a gold rack:
        "The moon is fallen? Not at all.

Lightning's only marble. Frightening?
        Only the moon's white marble hair."
"Stammering thunder's wicked hammer!"
        "Night's pasodoble in the air.

Tell me about it." "I'm in hell,
        I've lost my love, and my religion."
"So has your friend, but then, you know
        the Holy Ghost's a carrier pigeon.

He'll fly to you, he flew to me,
        flew back again, Faith in his beak.
He also brought my love to tea.
        We laughed until we couldn't speak."

"Bring more chartreuse! You've everything,
        I've nothing, and I hate the storm.
Fate bids me go." "It isn't late.
        Goya's musicians still perform.

Pains of your youth, and Spanish rains
        don't last, and hearts heal in the South."
"I am betrayed. So stop this lie!
        These fountains merely herald drouth.

Dry death will follow quick, and I
        will burn, my tears will turn to steam.
I'll burst in bitter fire . . . you sigh?
        Thin sighing, like a vulture's scream!"

"Please write your book, and do not tease
        your pleasant present with your past.
But now, enough. They're going to shut."
        The ruby tango dies at last.

Loud, flying flowers, odours proud,
        die in the mirrors as they go.
Don Quintin's children have gone on.
        Don Quintin el Amargao.

                              Madrid. 1925.




God Save The King


I

             The conversation of a bell
           striking across the afternoon
   this is what we remember of our early youth.
    A torch in the bedclothes is soon put out
       by a morning that comes before its time
   closing the book before the end of the page.

   Charon rings his doorbell all day long, it seems.
            The ceaseless anger of a bell
          running across a foggy teatime
    this is what we remember of our early youth.

Amo. Amas. Amat. Does he really? How wonderful.
          A kiss translated from the Greek
    we received it in the bootroom, and we prayed
 prayed until our heads were cold with a pure sweat
          a simple dew, and ignorant.
Not knowing the tomb when it touched us, not seeing
        the small, immediate burial of a child
 taking this first warning as a gift, which was only
         the last tap of an old woodpecker.

  Across the harsh field the bell comes like a stone
    killing him who was telling us our first story.
He, the lustful elder, the dead woodpecker, is silent, so distressed
to be left alone again by youth, to be so abandoned
perched on the fence alone, in a pair of gold spectacles
    with a few red feathers round a broken beak.

  In an aseptic chapel, singing for Sunday supper
  our voices fail at the high note, the most holy.
    In the chapel sits the false eagle, the convert
      armoured in Christian brass, sprawling
         in a lean nest of Easter lilies.
          Here, the only eagle is brass
  and the saints have long since expelled the serpent
    leaving the lilies, virgins in a vase, open in death
    flowers of white soap, washed well, like the dead
starched, like the white cowls of the dead, waxed, smelling
                                     of an immortal Sunday.

        The last word of the daily bell is said
          over a cup of cocoa in the dark.
    Ice, coming by night, closes the ewer with a click.
The frosted sponge stiffens against a premature cockcrow.
      The cock waits patiently until we're all asleep
and then, before there's been a minute's quiet in which to
                                             wake and weep
      and go to sleep again, he springs in one leap
    straight from the farmyard to the top of the steeple
  rattles the cross with his claws, stretches back his head,
                                and screams to all the people
        screaming and screaming that dawn is late
       that the night is done which is not yet begun
lying, while his crown shakes on his head, his crown of red lead
  telling the lie, screaming a false dawn and an unwanted
                              resurrection to the scarcely dead.

                     We rise, blind
 with something that resembled sleep, a brief prostration
blind with torch, dream, or book, a few minutes of these.
A little horizontal straining, a burden born upon the back.
Rise, and shudder forward to split the ice, pour a libation
crush the sponge, and scrub the teeth, in between a sneeze.
A little vertical straining, quotidian harness, assumption of
                                             an upright rack.
                     We rise, blind.

          Between the first walls of the day
     my friend, it is so difficult to wait for youth
              so hard to become young.
    To be young only in years is to be old and mad
to wear a false beard, to be a small green peach bearded with snow
  its back against the wall, in a February without an end.
          We, being too young, are old, and wait
        at the bottom of a winter garden, for the sun
and, when the sun comes, we find no strength to grow
          being green peaches, small and cold
        but only the exchange of light for darkness
              of nothing for nothing
        only the illumination of a familiar disaster
        unseen at night, but long learned by heart.
            To hide tears in other tears
      for no reason, save that early youth is madness
        to hide laughter in counterfeit laughter
       this is what we know of our early youth.


II

To smell autumn is to be seventeen.
          C'est un amateur
        il est toujours l'lve.
      I fall with each wicked leaf
            seventeen.

Ego is triumphant in this lowest time
        ego in the evening season
the evening that is too sweet, too rich.
To-day there is only a banjo in tears
          to-day it is yesterday.

To-morrow, spring will come, a small unicorn bringing a birthday
                but I cannot be born again
            I cannot give birth to myself again.
 Instead, I, an inferior Werther, have permitted the world
                                        to bear me a bastard
            an old alien baby, and dead.
            The narrow hips of my soul
     shall engender me nothing. I am a silly Hamlet.

   Even now I should be naked, leaning against the light
      holding myself, a newborn baby, in my arms.
I should be standing in daylight, with the serpent and the eagle
      sitting in consort upon a burning bush, my head.

      Instead, my bones are a basket of silly sorrows.


III

      Under the sailing cedar tree, in a heavy August
       the elders sat on the lawn, eating a little tea.
The sun was in the silver, and the blue cuckoo, the bird Ophelia
          spoke her pure word, down in the field
     spoke and spoke again, words of virginal madness.
          Mother dwindled towards the vegetables
and grew back to us again, leaning through the afternoon
                   a daisy on a tide
         a bottle of milk in a green afternoon.

    But, as dirt gets between the teeth, and sweat creeps
                                     between the piano keys
          worms into everyone, nails into a cross
  so Mars, the loud newspaper boy, rode across our roses
         and trampled our teacups into the lawn.
 No storm scene destroyed our pastoral symphony, no grand
                                     tempest, but instead
as dirt gets into the teeth, the newspaper got in at the garden gate
                  and we were all filled with hate.
It wasn't for want of washing, of waiting and watching ... ah, no
       we were always awfully careful, even at Oddenino.
Black dirt, white dirt, all on a printed page, we didn't be_lieve_ you
       because of Cambridge, Cornwall, vows in a punt
         because we were being _young_ so _beau_tifully.

      Mother returned from the vegetables, on the run
             through the ruins of the minute
  sat on a garden chair, and thrust her roots down among
                                                the daisies
               in search of an older strength.
      Father cursed, and Ophelia fell from the bough
        snapping a Flanders poppy where she fell.
 Father's age, too old, made itself into a monument beside Mother
 an evening monument, and the eyelids were a little weary.
  We went. We left by the last summer train, never again.

  The Thames trembled in its bed, and Big Ben boomed
the Abbey crouched like a beast, growling "All my boys
                                          are doomed!"
Straw hats, as hot as butterflies, like butterflies rose on the roar
that met the long, grey princes at the Brandenburger Tor.
      "Splendid, splendid" cried Burlington Bertie
             all the knuts were so excited
     "It doesn't matter now, having empty pockets"
      too excited to think of the empty eye-sockets.

 Father and Mother stood at home, in the mortal sunrise
    that shook on the horizon and refused to move.
  They stood, dumb gardeners in a forsaken greenhouse
  England, my green house, England, my green thought
 in my green shade, yellow sand, emerald isle, silver sea,
                                             hearts of oak
white walls, rule Britannia, Britannia rules the waves, never
                                        waives the rules, but
the thunder's got into the milk, my darling, and the
                              short-horn's got T. B.
and what, we soon began to say, is going to become of me?


IV

                        Explosion.
There is no air. Only a blue vacuum, the hollow flame of
                                             a blow-lamp
         a blue, droning flame. An open mouth
a blue, toothless mouth, kissing the young face, and droning.

          There is no air, but again and again
          explosion, in an exhausted sunshine.
    There is a little air, now. It comes with the rain.
  Souls, dropped under dust, stir gently, and soon float
                between their owners' feet
            pieces of bread in a stopped drain.
      My brother has lain down to rest a moment
       to blow a tired, red bubble in the mud.
     I have lived. I am now dead before I am dead.

Where is my eagle, who was to perch, at last, on my shoulder?
          Where is my serpent, the eagle's lover
  who was to coil about the eagle, and guide his beak?

    I came here that I should not sleep before evening
that I should awake once, in the holy strength of the eagle
and that I should awake a second time, in the holy wisdom
                                           of the serpent
           and now I am dead before I am dead.

                              Nore. 1928.




A Small Crucifixion


            So many faces and so many nails
faces in a huge, winter window, nails in a nice little box.
            The young man's being crucified.

Such a cheerful cross, all painted with wild flowers by a Lady
          the colours go so well with the blood
        flat ferns of blood, thin and hard as wax.
             Spider shapes of blood, crawling
       behind each hand, and behind the locked feet.

             What did he do to you, Lady?
                 He would not love.
            What shall we do to him, Lady?
             Crucify him. Crucify him.

          Vast winter faces fill the palace places.
         White, whistling March puts pretty sparks
          of jumping light on each nail's head.
         The army and the king sit in a rich ring
        hermaphrodites, hostesses, and pious ghosts
      watching him jerk, and jerk. He's not yet dead.

  Seated upon genuine antiques, we've a good view.
  The motor cars come curving up like a lot of cats
     while the young man struggles on his tree.
       Silly struggles. Snuggle close to me.
       Lady! now mark my words, seriously
      God made the world that this should be.

    Lady, come rest on the red cushion of my heart
 and watch the small spider microphone hang in his face,
                                                  spinning
       a world's web to catch a public of flies.
                  Each little cough
            shall be heard by millions.

    With blood in his voice, balanced upon infinity
he made his bed, he made his choice, nails are now his trinity.

                              Nore. 1929.




Homage to Tennyson


      "Between the shadows of the vine bunches
      Floated the glowing sunlights as she moved."
          But all my sins return. Alone I pace
               the graveyard of myselves.

               Oh for an old, night wood!
         I would lie down upon a bank, and watch
         the stars bathe in the slowly folding stream
        a little stream, caught in its own cold curtains
         the permanent curtains of my final sadness.
   All those young ghosts that were me, stretched around
   half in the ground, heads propt in moss, and wreathed
       with shining strings of dew, my own old tears.
        I would not look at them, having forgiven
         having forgotten all the wrongs I've done
        and I've been done. Only your red flower
     shakes on the opposite bank like a cup of blood.
      Where is this stream, the crystal of my sadness
         the luminous, fallen statue of despair?
      The stream, the purest portrait of my madness
and the ruby blossom, above all my dead, burning the deep,
                                                 dark air?

                              London. 1929.




Father and Son


                  Bones, bones, bones, bones
          nothing but gristle, and a shower of bones
         a storm of stones, and little pieces of blood
             rolling down a face in the morning.

             Hiding in a restaurant, let me turn
    to recollections of what must have been my youth.
         The buttercups were boiling in the park
           le duc se promne avec son pass.
                Lama, lama, sabacthani.
  The grand Lama, my boy, lives in Thibet. A screw of
                                           brown paper
blown into a corner of the monastery throne. Lamas, my son
live high in Thibet, the duke lives in his enormous mansion
             and _is our very kind landlord_....
the future frightens me, my boy, because I am old, and was
                                           badly educated.

          All men are cormorants, all the day
         all day's a dream, so choose your eyes
                        carefully
   pull them out when it's time. Choose some more.
 There is no thing-in-itself. So, if you will, you may see
      des clairons, du soleil, des cris et du tambour
                    ... ivre d'amour.

     Then, father, I want a body and a whole soul
           a whole heart, and a whole head
           to crowd itself against my body.

           Boy, you can't choose _those_ eyes.
 It may come. But instead, you'll often find another boy
             another girl, and they'll be twisted
on the black ribs of one stone, on the angry grids of one minute.
Oh, my God, my boy, be warned of me that you must see
       under a little red sun like a hole in a dog
      boys and girls served on a hot plate of tears.
          Oh bones bones and boys and girls
        early flesh that began as a vase of light
                 tied with a sash of grass
         in a lap of wild leaves, set upon fur
         all this stolen, sat upon, and scraped
         into hollow mud, and wincing wind
           sour as a wincing, winter wind!

Winter garden, Tiergarten, I went to Berlin when I was young
  and I saw women made of knives and forks, and boys
        in clothes of snow, and I confirmed both.
                    That was one virtue.
Because, once, I was like that. I hated missing anything, and
                                     that's a sort of virtue.
      "Yes"--"Yes," that was my motto, whereas
"Always Merry and Bright" is still the motto of my cronies.

          I'm your Daddy, and I done me best
        (which is more than I'll do, dear Daddy)
and there was, my boy, an April terrace, a late April terrace
            over a loving curve o' the Rhine
  a curve like that what old Venus must 'ave 'ad, blesser
              I mean the reel old Venus.
          There was the terrace and the table
        and between the terrace and the table, I.
I was Heidelberg, and Henley--poet--and Sargent, too
    and an Irving hero, with my hothouse moustache
                      . . . all this.
  I was your tragic papa, bedight, rather tight, all right
and Lili was there, who grew in Bingen, a sprig of groundsel
ready, each gloaming, for me, the yellow canary out of the
                                               Yellow Book
though I really was a Henley youth, of course, both Henleys
and thought Wilde a beast, though . . sorry, too . . of course.
  Well, she came upon the terrace, a rising milk fountain
            a rock garden, a waltz, my Lili
  and there was a grave sunset floating in the hock like a
                                                strawberry.

  The evening was Schiller, whispering. Mamma Rhine
          with the dear barges in her stomach
  and each cargo one century of very serious thought.
Well, we devoured our dinner, boy, and kissed the moon.
          It became healed, like a sensible girl.
  Cronies . . . awfully decent . . . nothing unhealthy . . .
Well . . . but, _choose your eyes_, for God's sake, my dear boy
              in spite of the fact I lost the fight
. . . fought at Arques, Crillon, and you were . . . where was I?
Don't pay any attention. I lost. You win. Choose your eyes.

                        Father . . .
              I want a body, and a whole soul
              a whole heart, and a whole head
          to crowd between my sins, my body, myself.

        Good gracious, what on earth's the good . . . eh?

And now there's no terrace, no trace. All the flights of all
                                                 the terraces
              (the flight of the duchesses)
  have crumbled into the Express Dairy Co. Ltd. I think
          since I _did_ buy this mist of mimosa
      I'll have another dish of Bulgarian Lactic Milk.

               Never mind, Daddy, never mind.

            Oh, you can't understand time, boy
            so you can't understand me, boy.
            Under this fringe of withered tears
      my moustache is an old flag hung in an old barrack
          riddled so long ago with red hot mouths
          (rags in the Escorial fidget in the draught)
I was like the hero in "Smoke" once, on the clouded terrace
        fruits, and the "old guard," gods and medals
      and trophies, pergnes ranged upon the sunset's table
                    by Youth's butler, God.
The coloured uniforms of Goethe's cavalry, the serious sunset.
Now, I am broken on the wheels of a small table and a small
                                                      table
            between a waitress and a wheezy sin.
            My life's a wilderness of ancient lace
      frozen as wee and brittle as your mother's fingers
          frozen by time's ice, cracked at a kiss.
My life is a quadrille of shadows, with one extraordinary
                                                    shadow
          containing the prophecy of a stone skull
          with a roll of black dust on its upper lip.
                    No drum and no tropics
          no Lili, and no trophies, I am at the end.

Now . . . wear wool, _and buy a new pair of eyes_
            every day, my dear boy.

              Father . . . I want . . .

                              Nore. 1929.




She


      Across each Rhodes, beside each sea
        the maddened statue of maternity.
    The two smooth moons that are her eyes
        are not allowed to show surprise.
    She is the pelican that broke her breast
        to feed the treason in her nest.

            O red, returning tide!
            She was once a bride.

Blown blind, with huge, sad hands blown hollow
  she leans, she leans by the salt, sombre shore.
      A silent stone beside a silent harbour
she waits, she waits, nor ever knows them more.

                              La Napoule. 1929.




The Listening Child


          The sound of England from abroad
        the echo of our parents' wedding march
    reaches us. Like a gramophone in the next house
we hear our father singing in the drawing room, the past.
              Beside a hot and silent sea
          we listen to the noises of the past.

          With mosquitoes for our foreign rain
      dropping in long ropes out of these blue clouds
    a rope of mosquitoes meets the sea, and spreads out
like treacle pouring upon the floor. A sigh, and the marble day
                        slides away.

      The echo of London, London's country, comes
            between the coffee and the smile
            (sing, cicada, shine, phosphorous)
          the slow-travelling echo has arrived.
            A manly voice. A marriage bell.

                              La Napoule. 1929.




The Secret


    There is a shadow where a man sometimes sings.
    A shadow the shape of a tear. O sun, your help!
      The shape of a phallus. The shape of a heart.

      Through the hole in my soul I watch him.
        It has made the only hole in my soul.

        Brothers, sisters, do not shine so bright.

  Brothers and sisters, animals, fathers and mothers, too
      tell me your wicked secret, for he cannot live.

  Giant friends, and dancing relations, you have eaten me
      I have been your house. Tell me your secret.
  Tell him, the ignorant singer, how one is able to live.
Teach him to dance like you, giant friends, dancing fathers
  you, my sister, who hold in your hands a dancing bird
you, my brother, who hold your wife in your arms like a
                                        bouquet of blood
        Tell me! Tell me! For he cannot live!

                              La Napoule. 1929.




Self


         What is this time when the sun stops
  and stands on our little mountain like a street lamp?
 A light, white ball that stops at the height of its flight
                      a frozen game
                over violet, winter water.

            In the middle of our beginning
              there is a temporary death.
I see a strange Mediterranean made of a variety of violets
  I have never seen before. Sown by the moon, perhaps.
    All is gone from me this morning save life itself.

                     My hottest tear
              is one with the frozen stream
             my purest laughter shall reappear
                in the peacock's scream.

          If this should last, good-bye, my friends.
              There is only myself left, and that
                is the equivalent of nothing.
              When I was with you I was many.
     The wind has become still, has become
       a large, new flower, made of air.

       There is only the world itself left
       the world that was in the world.
           There is only myself left
           myself that was in myself.

             Wait, you whom I love, if you will
    until the sunset picks the last rose, slowly, and goes.
          It will leave, now, only black and white
          and I shall be the stranger on this rock.

    There is this transparent time when the world stops
             and it is then, only, that I am.

                              La Napoule. 1929.




Branch


         Branch that flew on the hill this morning
           spire of pity, rest in this cold glass.

       Branch, fold your wild hands, and pray for me
 I am twenty four. Twenty four, and purity still lies before.

                              La Napoule. 1929.




I remember I remember


        The light of lemons, a child's light.
      Open the history book in the silent north
             and it shines like a child.

         And yet I see each bough's a finger
           scratching the thin wind's skin
     each finger has a nail, each knot of fingers
         holds a small knife I used to know.

        Ah, the war in the south is ever hateful
      the islands of light in the sky, travelling fast
and for me, whose big head's always cracked with thirst
      my English house is a sweet glass of water.

  But must I always remember my soldier childhood
               the knives in the trees?

                              Nore. 1929.




Two In one


         Parfois il parle et dit, "Je suis belle,
                                     et j'ordonne
         Que pour l'amour de moi vous
                            n'aimiez que le Beau;
         Je suis l'Ange gardien, la Muse, et
                                      la Madone!"

                                     Baudelaire.


       Among wagging leaves, green pots and red
         I wrote you a letter when I was dead.
        To-day our tears are telegrams. The rain
on the wires is made of tears. Look at these drops again.
        How could I speak or eat alone in the south?
           It takes four lips to make a mouth.

          During a year's fear I heard a voice say
           "Cease to pray, and on a last Friday
      at sunrise, stand at the white mouth of the sea
up to your cold loins in water and light, and look for me.
       I am the thing, the meaning, and the prize
     that stands within the balls of your dumb eyes.
 Come, when I fit the sun's ring on the day's hand, come
                                             at sunrise."

            Summer and winter came together.
        Statues of summer stood along the morning
       and walked across the sea with hot, white feet.
     Light poured from them upon the ships and flowers
till all the ships were flowers, and blinding flowers the fleet.
   From the extreme birth-pain at the sea's electric lips
  whence the Guardian Angel came, to the clouds of ice
 the blessing statues stretched. As we entered the sky, the
                                                       Muse
 in blowing fire flew murmuring by, towards the sacrifice.

       As we left summer, our two isles took flight
        to new, blue stations high above the sea
       as 'twixt vast, chanting statues we four rose
  the islands rose on the wind, and smiled at the sight.

        It was to be all, all, all in a single day
      all summer, morning, and all winter, noon
         all love to love, all pain to love away
from the white hot sun, all love, to the cold white moon.

 So love, which had broken its golden nests on the gold sea floor
  and burst into ships and flowers by the soft sea shore
               met us upon the mountain.

       It seemed the sun spun round the place
         and rose and set at our hearts' pace
       yet, springing from each other's mouths
      love left time instantly, and won the race.

      From side to side, the swinging seasons flow
        the green May valley flashes into snow
     while we, firm founded on each other's mouths
      form the world's centre, to love's centre go.

    Those misers' bags, our breasts, were first undone
         so did our gold each to the other run
     then all our blood ran to each other's mouths.
    Can two be two, when two have thus been one?

       O branching blood, O twin red tree!
      You have so kissed, and mixed with me
       with blood for food, and wine for bed
       our heart-shaped root on wine was fed
      with rock for clock, for leaves the snow
    how can we wither, or the woodman know?
     What can we do but to new glories grow?

      The cross was made, the bread was laid
              upon the bleeding stone
      the cross was mine, the right was mine
             to spurn the cross, alone.
       The moment nears, the heart appears
             the mountain sings and turns
      our two heads change to one, a strange
             and blessd thing, that burns.

           What are the stars, poor lonely lights
   that hang their cold, chaste chains across the nights?
         They wink for tears, who only can aspire
to fuse themselves, as we have done, into one star, one fire.

                              La Napoule. 1929-1930.




Saying Good-bye to a Phoenix


        I am so proud of my rebellious phoenix
       he rises, and his wings are blinding gongs.
      Over our small, cold London, our dead mother
      pour the grey flowers of his ash. Above them
                             I hear huge, solar songs.

           I cry good-bye to my free phoenix
       with a sandy throat, and my heart is bared.
But I am a poet, and I can make wings, I shall make wings
 and though you have flown alone to roost on the sun
                                        to-morrow
                          the sun's nest shall be shared.

                              London. 1930.




Love Letter


                 The fire rolls in the coal
                 the coal screams with fire.
       Sick winter listens on the outer wall, shut out.
       Winter is wounded, her nightgown of tall fogs
    is striped with cold white blood, she is without fire.
         But small spring is shut out, remember, also
 also the wife and the mother, summer and autumn together.
                   The coal it flies and falls
               red and red, the spitting pleasure
  the swiftest pleasure. And what does this pleasure think
    of thought? for it is fire. Of pain? for it is pleasure.
                  Of time? for it is to-day.
    Of love? for it is fastest fire, and th'expense of spirit
               and immediate pleasure. Fire.

        You will grow no pansy in the loud coal
      no pansy grows where the coal falls, fighting.
    The grate is a body burning, but where's the pansy
 that lifts a long, black song in the breaking pleasure of fire?
        The coal flies, the coal dies
         there is no earth in that bed.
      You will have to come back to earth.
      With only a white sheet twisting, how
how can you grow black pansies in a winding sheet?

           If you are coal, go to coal
          if you are a bed, go to bed
  until you remember the earth, the bed of earth
         the flower bed, and the gardener.
           No flowers live in linen beds
             coal beds, beds of fire.
     You must have more earth in your desire
              you must, you must
             lust is not to trust
                     unjust.

                              London. 1930.




Entends la douce nuit qui marche


I love the day, the yellow phoenix, but I love the terrible night.

   I have two loves, and one is the day, the peace, the
                               brother-lover, the phoenix
      he is covered with folding veils of silent fire
 he sits and swells within a scroll of strong, harmless fire
 that can fill the world, and that feeds me, so that I am
                                                the world.
         This is the day, the gold food, my truth.

      I have two loves, and one is the terrible night
           the cannibal carnation, the soft storm
    beautiful, blind and black, invisible, alive and dead
the carnation face, the lullaby, the kindest poison, the prison.
  Oh loud, loud is the night, the flower made of mouths
       louder than the day, louder than my heart.
The sun falls, and at once there swings up from the ground,
                                           in at the window
 the night, the drooping thunder, the carnation.
It is a burst flower, its blood has burst it, the petals
           are waving fans of soft blood.

             It is the mounting night.

                              London. 1930.




Always


       I will never give up asking, where are the days?
Still the hero dwindles upon the marble, chained with bones.

   Where is the headland, where are the larger clouds?
   Where is the place where there are men and women?

We have been insulted by all islands, all voices and times.
Yet I shall ask always, when will the lovers come, where
                                           are the days?

                              London. 1930.




The Figure


      Believe in the body in the landscape!
     The wind on the rock is a flowing flower.

    A gun fires on the mountain, the great sound
    flies, like another world, over my hollow past.

            The flowers flow across the rock.

The figure stands. A cross, a brown star in the scaffolding
          of the half built house. The heart.
          The sun bounds out of the mountain
  while the gun fires again and again. It is the spring.
The gun fires. And a new sun whistles straight up into the
                                         centre of the sky
       to hang and throb and flash and shudder.
     White flowers and animals pour across the rocks.

The figure stands between the fingers of the coming heart
          the slim beams of the heart, the veins
         the scaffolding of the house. The heart.

Legs wide, and arms wide. The widest light. The man, the
                                        spreading angel.
                       Cross. Star.

The worlds are one. It is the spring. The landscapes are one.
     The mountain is all the mountains. The stream
 has swept all the world's water into one. The one rock
                          rises.

             The wind lies shining on the rock.

   Stand, figure! Stand upon the future, while the past
              and the present drop, nails
             from your high hands and feet.
   Stand, figure, and live, and live! While the future
       swings and blazes upon the only landscape.
       The new sun roars above. It is all the birds.
Stand, figure! All the flowers burst and roll upon the rocks.
It is the end. The heart is building. It is the beginning.
Stand, figure, brown star, in the heart!

                              London. 1930.




Up


All a large black summer's death dies in this one moment
                                           (this nought)
 one afternoon. The sky, pearl in the shut shell, leans,
                                             sick asleep
down the slum to the slum. The rain's chains, without one
                                               sound sung
thin still chains, hang, hardly seen, locking London unlit.
 Tearless, I prepare the leap up, newest, longest, most far
 I crouch, one, struck, windless, fireless, heavy, heavy the
                                                    wound
  hoping not, speaking not, I knot the nameless muscle.
                                                  O Life!
bend down, bend my bow, send my arrow high, now, not
                                             low, below.
I am my arrow. I have thick hearts to kill, that have killed
                                              me. Yet, I am.
I, still, am. Hurl me hard, high, and I will kill, and live,
                                and still give life, O Life.

                              London. August 10th. 1930.




[End of _God Save the King_ by Brian Howard]
