sword blades & poppy seed-第1部分

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Sword　Blades　and　Poppy　Seed



by　Amy　Lowell












Preface







No　one　expects　a　man　to　make　a　chair　without　first　learning　how；

but　there　is　a　popular　impression　that　the　poet　is　born；　not　made；

and　that　his　verses　burst　from　his　overflowing　heart　of　themselves。

As　a　matter　of　fact；　the　poet　must　learn　his　trade　in　the　same　manner；

and　with　the　same　painstaking　care；　as　the　cabinet…maker。

His　heart　may　overflow　with　high　thoughts　and　sparkling　fancies；

but　if　he　cannot　convey　them　to　his　reader　by　means　of　the　written　word

he　has　no　claim　to　be　considered　a　poet。　　A　workman　may　be　pardoned；

therefore；　for　spending　a　few　moments　to　explain　and　describe

the　technique　of　his　trade。　　A　work　of　beauty　which　cannot　stand

an　intimate　examination　is　a　poor　and　jerry…built　thing。



In　the　first　place；　I　wish　to　state　my　firm　belief　that　poetry　should　not

try　to　teach；　that　it　should　exist　simply　because　it　is　a　created　beauty；

even　if　sometimes　the　beauty　of　a　gothic　grotesque。　　We　do　not　ask　the　trees

to　teach　us　moral　lessons；　and　only　the　Salvation　Army　feels　it　necessary

to　pin　texts　upon　them。　　We　know　that　these　texts　are　ridiculous；

but　many　of　us　do　not　yet　see　that　to　write　an　obvious　moral

all　over　a　work　of　art；　picture；　statue；　or　poem；　is　not　only　ridiculous；

but　timid　and　vulgar。　　We　distrust　a　beauty　we　only　half　understand；

and　rush　in　with　our　impertinent　suggestions。　　How　far　we　are

from　〃admitting　the　Universe〃！　　The　Universe；　which　flings　down

its　continents　and　seas；　and　leaves　them　without　comment。　　Art　is　as　much

a　function　of　the　Universe　as　an　Equinoctial　gale；　or　the　Law　of　Gravitation；

and　we　insist　upon　considering　it　merely　a　little　scroll…work；

of　no　great　importance　unless　it　be　studded　with　nails　from　which

pretty　and　uplifting　sentiments　may　be　hung！



For　the　purely　technical　side　I　must　state　my　immense　debt　to　the　French；

and　perhaps　above　all　to　the；　so…called；　Parnassian　School；

although　some　of　the　writers　who　have　influenced　me　most　do　not　belong　to　it。

High…minded　and　untiring　workmen；　they　have　spared　no　pains

to　produce　a　poetry　finer　than　that　of　any　other　country　in　our　time。

Poetry　so　full　of　beauty　and　feeling；　that　the　study　of　it　is　at　once

an　inspiration　and　a　despair　to　the　artist。　　The　Anglo…Saxon　of　our　day

has　a　tendency　to　think　that　a　fine　idea　excuses　slovenly　workmanship。

These　clear…eyed　Frenchmen　are　a　reproof　to　our　self…satisfied　laziness。

Before　the　works　of　Parnassians　like　Leconte　de　Lisle；

and　Jose/…Maria　de　Heredia；　or　those　of　Henri　de　Re/gnier；　Albert　Samain；

Francis　Jammes；　Remy　de　Gourmont；　and　Paul　Fort；　of　the　more　modern　school；

we　stand　rebuked。　　Indeed　　　〃They　order　this　matter　better　in　France。〃



It　is　because　in　France；　to…day；　poetry　is　so　living　and　vigorous　a　thing；

that　so　many　metrical　experiments　come　from　there。　　Only　a　vigorous　tree　has

the　vitality　to　put　forth　new　branches。　　The　poet　with　originality　and　power

is　always　seeking　to　give　his　readers　the　same　poignant　feeling　which

he　has　himself。　　To　do　this　he　must　constantly　find　new　and　striking　images；

delightful　and　unexpected　forms。　　Take　the　word　〃daybreak〃；　for　instance。

What　a　remarkable　picture　it　must　once　have　conjured　up！

The　great；　round　sun；　like　the　yolk　of　some　mighty　egg；　BREAKING　through

cracked　and　splintered　clouds。　　But　we　have　said　〃daybreak〃　so　often

that　we　do　not　see　the　picture　any　more；　it　has　become　only

another　word　for　dawn。　　The　poet　must　be　constantly　seeking　new　pictures

to　make　his　readers　feel　the　vitality　of　his　thought。



Many　of　the　poems　in　this　volume　are　written　in　what

the　French　call　〃Vers　Libre〃；　a　nomenclature　more　suited

to　French　use　and　to　French　versification　than　to　ours。　　I　prefer　to　call　them

poems　in　〃unrhymed　cadence〃；　for　that　conveys　their　exact　meaning

to　an　English　ear。　　They　are　built　upon　〃organic　rhythm〃；

or　the　rhythm　of　the　speaking　voice　with　its　necessity　for　breathing；

rather　than　upon　a　strict　metrical　system。　　They　differ　from

ordinary　prose　rhythms　by　being　more　curved；　and　containing　more　stress。

The　stress；　and　exceedingly　marked　curve；　of　any　regular　metre

is　easily　perceived。　　These　poems；　built　upon　cadence；　are　more　subtle；

but　the　laws　they　follow　are　not　less　fixed。　　Merely　chopping

prose　lines　into　lengths　does　not　produce　cadence；　it　is　constructed　upon

mathematical　and　absolute　laws　of　balance　and　time。　　In　the　preface

to　his　〃Poems〃；　Henley　speaks　of　〃those　unrhyming　rhythms　in　which

I　had　tried　to　quintessentialize；　as　（I　believe）　one　scarce　can　do　in　rhyme。〃

The　desire　to　〃quintessentialize〃；　to　head…up　an　emotion

until　it　burns　white…hot；　seems　to　be　an　integral　part　of　the　modern　temper；

and　certainly　〃unrhymed　cadence〃　is　unique　in　its　power　of　expressing　this。



Three　of　these　poems　are　written　in　a　form　which；　so　far　as　I　know；

has　never　before　been　attempted　in　English。　　M。　Paul　Fort　is　its　inventor；

and　the　results　it　has　yielded　to　him　are　most　beautiful　and　satisfactory。

Perhaps　it　is　more　suited　to　the　French　language　than　to　English。

But　I　found　it　the　only　medium　in　which　these　particular　poems

could　be　written。　　It　is　a　fluid　and　changing　form；　now　prose；　now　verse；

and　permitting　a　great　variety　of　treatment。



But　the　reader　will　see　that　I　have　not　entirely　abandoned

the　more　classic　English　metres。　　I　cannot　see　why；　because　certain　manners

suit　certain　emotions　and　subjects；　it　should　be　considered　imperative

for　an　author　to　employ　no　others。　　Schools　are　for　those

who　can　confine　themselves　within　them。　　Perhaps　it　is　a　weakness　in　me

that　I　cannot。



In　conclusion；　I　would　say　that　these　remarks　are　in　answer　to　many　questions

asked　me　by　people　who　have　happened　to　read　some　of　these　poems

in　periodicals。　　They　are　not　for　the　purpose　of　forestalling　criticism；

nor　of　courting　it；　and　they　deal；　as　I　said　in　the　beginning；　solely　with

the　question　of　technique。　　For　the　more　important　part　of　the　book；

the　poems　must　speak　for　themselves。



　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　Amy　Lowell。

May　19；　1914。











Contents







　　　　Sword　Blades　and　Poppy　Seed



Sword　Blades　and　Poppy　Seed





　　　　Sword　Blades



The　Captured　Goddess

The　Precinct。　　Rochester

The　Cyclists

Sunshine　through　a　Cobwebbed　Window

A　London　Thoroughfare。　　2　A。M。

Astigmatism

The　Coal　Picker

Storm…Racked

Convalescence

Patience

Apology

A　Petition

A　Blockhead

Stupidity

Irony

Happiness

The　Last　Quarter　of　the　Moon

A　Tale　of　Starvation

The　Foreigner

Absence

A　Gift

The　Bungler

Fool's　Money　Bags

Miscast　I

Miscast　II

Anticipation

Vintage

The　Tree　of　Scarlet　Berries

Obligation

The　Taxi

The　Giver　of　Stars

The　Temple

Epitaph　of　a　Young　Poet　Who　Died　Before　Having　Achieved　Success

In　Answer　to　a　Request





　　　　Poppy　Seed



The　Great　Adventure　of　Max　Breuck

Sancta　Maria；　Succurre　Miseris

After　Hearing　a　Waltz　by　Bartok

Clear；　with　Light；　Variable　Winds

The　Basket

In　a　Castle

The　Book　of　Hours　of　Sister　Clotilde

The　Exeter　Road

The　Shadow

The　Forsaken

Late　September

The　Pike

The　Blue　Scarf

White　and　Green

Aubade

Music

A　Lady

In　a　Garden

A　Tulip　Garden











　　　　Sword　Blades　and　Poppy　Seed

　　　　…











Sword　Blades　and　Poppy　Seed







A　drifting；　April；　twilight　sky；

A　wind　which　blew　the　puddles　dry；

And　slapped　the　river　into　waves

That　ran　and　hid　among　the　staves

Of　an　old　wharf。　　A　watery　light

Touched　bleak　the　granite　bridge；　and　white

Without　the　slightest　tinge　of　gold；

The　city　shivered　in　the　cold。

All　day　my　thoughts　had　lain　as　dead；

Unborn　and　bursting　in　my　head。

From　time　to　time　I　wrote　a　word

Which　lines　and　circles　overscored。

My　table　seemed　a　graveyard；　full

Of　coffins　waiting　burial。

I　seized　these　vile　abortions；　tore

Them　into　jagged　bits；　and　swore

To　be　the　dupe　of　hope　no　more。

Into　the　evening　straight　I　went；

Starved　of　a　day's　accomplishment。

Unnoticing；　I　wandered　where

The　city　gave　a　space　for　air；

And　on　the　bridge's　parapet

I　leant；　while　pallidly　there　set

A　dim；　discouraged；　worn…out　sun。

Behind　me；　where　the　tramways　run；

Blossomed　bright　lights；　I　turned　to　leave；

When　someone　plucked　me　by　the　sleeve。

〃Your　pardon；　Sir；　but　I　should　be

Most　grateful　could　you　lend　to　me

A　carfare；　I　have　lost　my　purse。〃

The　voice　was　clear；　concise；　and　terse。

I　turned　and　met　the　quiet　gaze

Of　strange　eyes　flashing　through　the　haze。



The　man　was　old　and　slightly　bent；

Under　his　cloak　some　instrument

Disarranged　its　stately　line；

He　rested　on　his　cane　a　fine

And　nervous　hand；　an　almandine

Smouldered　with　dull…red　flames；　sanguine

It　burned　in　twisted　gold；　upon

His　finger。　　Like　some　Spanish　don；

Conferring　favours　even　when

Asking　an　alms；　he　bowed　again

And　waited。　　But　my　pockets　proved

Empty；　in　vain　I　poked　and　shoved；

No　hidden　penny　lurking　there

Greeted　my　search。　　〃Sir；　I　declare

I　have　no　money；　pray　forgive；

But　let　me　take　you　where　you　live。〃

And　so　we　plodded　through　the　mire

Where　street　lamps　cast　a　wavering　fire。

I　took　no　note　of　where　we　went；

His　talk　became　the　element

Wherein　my　being　swam；　content。

It　flashed　like　rapiers　in　the　night

Lit　by　uncertain　candle…light；

When　on　some　moon…forsaken　sward

A　quarrel　dies　upon　a　sword。

It　hacked　and　carved　like　a　cutlass　blade；

And　the　noise　in　the　air　the　broad　words　made

Was　the　cry　of　the　wind　at　a　window…pane

On　an　Autumn　night　of　sobbing　rain。

Then　it　would　run　like　a　steady　stream

Under　pinnacled　bridges　where　minarets　gleam；

Or　lap　the　air　like　the　lapping　tide

Where　a　marble　staircase　lifts　its　wide

Green…spotted　steps　to　a　garden　gate；

And　a　waning　moon　is　sinking　straight

Down　to　a　bla