Year: 2019

“Invocation” by Francis Brett Young

Invocation

Whither, O, my sweet mistress, must I follow thee?

For when I hear thy distant footfall nearing,

And wait on thy appearing,

Lo ! my lips are silent : no words come to me.

 

Once I waylaid thee in green forest covers,

Hoping that spring might free my lips with gentle

Alas ! her presence lingers                            fingers ;

No longer than on the plain the shadow of brown kestrel

hovers.

[ . . . ]

Francis Brett Young's poem "Invocation" was published in Georgian Poetry, 1918-1919. To read this poem in full in a digitized version of this publication, follow the link below:

Archive.org

“Postlude” by William Carlos Williams

Postlude

Now that I have cooled to you
Let there be gold of tarnished masonry,
Temples soothed by the sun to ruin
That sleep utterly.
Give me hand for the dances,
Ripples at Philse, in and out,
And lips, my Lesbian,
Wall flowers that once were flame.

[ . . . ]

William Carlos Williams poem "Interlude" was published in the 1914 Des Imagistes anthology. To read this poem in full in a digitized version of this publication, follow the links below:

Archive.org

The Blue Mountain Project (The Glebe)

The Modernist Journals Project (The Glebe)

The Modernist Journals Project (Publisher: Albert and Charles Boni, NY)

The Modernist Journals Project (Publisher: The Poetry Bookshop, London)

“Envious Youth” by Helen Rootham

Envious Youth

I am not old enough to claim the privilege of years,
To sit apart and say to youth—
'Now watch my nodding wisdom;
Pay reverence to that you cannot see
Has any claim to reverence but age.'
I am not old enough to say to youth,
'I too once felt like you. But now the years
Sit heavy on my shoulders—therefore you are wrong.'
I cannot fold my hands, and having lived my life
Count with uneasy eyes the heavy, passing hours,
Nursing each minute with unceasing care,
Lest an unwary movement snatch a few from me.
For I am young, and in my glad young veins
The blood runs freely.
I seize each passing hour
And fling it gaily where its fellows lie,
And care not what old age doth call that heap—
The Past—the Present—or To Be.
Why should I care ? All time is mine,
Or should be.
But wise age has held the world,
And turned it round and round,
Until the sudden death that age avoids with anxious care
Lurks in its every corner, and claims
Not age, but me.

 

Helen Rootham's poem "Envious Youth" was published in the 1916 Wheels anthology. To read this poem in a digitized version of this publication, follow the links below:

Archive.org

Modernist Journals Project

“To a Solitary Disciple” by William Carlos Williams

To a Solitary Disciple

Rather notice, mon cher,
that the moon is
tilted above
the point of the steeple
than that its color
is shell-pink.
Rather observe
that it is early morning
than that the sky
is smooth
as a turquoise.

[ . . . ]

William Carlos Williams' poem "To a Solitary Disciple" was published in the 1916 Others anthology. To read this poem in full in a digitized version of this publication, follow the link below:

Archive.org

“Ecstasy” by W.J. Turner

Ecstasy

I saw a frieze on whitest marble drawn
Of boys who sought for shells along the shore,
Their white feet shedding pallor in the sea,
The shallow sea, the spring-time sea of green
That faintly creamed against the cold, smooth
pebbles.

The air was thin, their limbs were delicate,
The wind had graven their small eager hands
To feel the forests and the dark nights of Asia
Behind the purple bloom of the horizon,
Where sails would float and slowly melt away.

Their naked, pure, and grave, unbroken silence
Filled the soft air as gleaming, limpid water
Fills a spring sky those days when rain is lying
In shattered bright pools on the wind-dried roads,
And their sweet bodies were wind-purified.

One held a shell unto his shell-like ear
And there was music carven in his face,
His eyes half-closed, his lips just breaking open
To catch the lulling, mazy, coralline roar
Of numberless caverns filled with singing seas.

And all of them were hearkening as to singing
Of far-off voices thin and delicate,
Voices too fine for any mortal wind
To blow into the whorls of mortal ears
And yet those sounds flowed from their grave,
sweet faces.

And as I looked I heard that delicate music,
Turner And I became as grave, as calm, as still
As those carved boys. I stood upon that shore,
I felt the cool sea dream around my feet,
My eyes were staring at the far horizon:

And the wind came and purified my limbs,
And the stars came and set within my eyes,
And snowy clouds rested upon my shoulders,
And the blue sky shimmered deep within me,
And I sang like a carven pipe of music.

 

W.J. Turner's poem "Ecstasy" was published in Georgian Poetry, 1916-1917. To read this poem in a digitized copy of this publication, follow the links below:

Archive.org

Project Gutenberg (HTML version)

 

“Priapus: Keeper-of-Orchards” by H.D.

Priapus
Keeper-of-Orchards

I saw the first pear
As it fell.
The honey-seeking, golden-banded,
The yellow swarm
Was not more fleet than I,
(Spare us from loveliness!)

[ . . . ]

H.D.'s poem "Priapus: Keeper-of-Orchards" was published in the 1914 imagist anthology, Des Imagistes. To read this poem in full in a digitized copy of this publication, follow the links below:

Archive.org

The Blue Mountain Project (The Glebe)

The Modernist Journals Project (The Glebe)

The Modernist Journals Project (Publisher: Albert and Charles Boni, NY)

The Modernist Journals Project (Publisher: The Poetry Bookshop, London)

“Laughing Lions Will Come” by Sacheverell Sitwell

Laughing Lions Will come

The prophet from his desert cave

Listens to the sound of water

Lapping with tongues the fringes of the sand.

Young flowers open for the bees;

A roadway for the yellow sun

Climbs from the hills into the fallow sea.

The scented bells hold golden sound;

And the strong lion drinks the salted waves,

Cooling his mane within the sudden foam.

The bee skirts tremblingly the shining dew

Looking for honey in the golden dells,

While the lion shakes the loud hills again.

This early morning there may lie some gold

Forgotten when the light was fled;

To-day the great beams may shine

On opened caves where run swift rivers,

Shooting their arrows at the swordless sea,

And blind to the sun whose shining armour

Shows in the sky among the clouds he charges—

Driving them across a wind-walled field

Into the shelter of the towering hills.

Honey may be biding in the waking flowers;

The man in armour hides behind the gold,

The strongest waves, far off, are snow.

[ . . . ]

Sacheverell Sitwell's poem "Laughing Lions Will Come" was published in the fifth "cycle" of Wheels in 1920. To read this poem in full in a digitized version of this publication, follow the links below:

Archive.org

The Modernist Journals Project

“At the Door of the House” by Mina Loy

At the Door of the House

A thousand women's eyes

Riveted to the unrealisable

Scatter the wash-stand of the card-teller

Defiled marble of Carrara

On which she spreads

Color-picture maps of destiny

In the comer

Of an incondusive bed-room

 

"Impassioned

Doubly impassioned

Sad

You see these three cards

But here is the double Victory

And there is an elderly lady

Ill      in whom you are concerned

This     is the Devil

And these two skeletons

Are mortifications

You       are going to make a journey

[ . . . ]

Mina Loy's poem "At the Door of the House" was published in the 1917 Others anthology. To read this poem in full in a digitized version of this publication, follow the links below:

Archive.org

HathiTrust

 

“The Old Ships” by James Elroy Flecker

The Old Ships

I have seen old ships sail like swans asleep
Beyond the village which men still call Tyre,
With leaden age o'ercargoed, dipping deep
For Famagusta and the hidden sun
That rings black Cyprus with a lake of fire;
And all those ships were certainly so old—
Who knows how oft with squat and noisy gun,
Questing brown slaves or Syrian oranges,
The pirate Genoese
Hell-raked them till they rolled
Blood, water, fruit and corpses up the hold.
But now through friendly seas they softly run,
Painted the mid-sea blue or shore-sea green.
Still patterned with the vine and grapes in gold.

But I have seen
Pointing her shapely shadows from the dawn
And image tumbled on a rose-swept bay
A drowsy ship of some yet older day;
And, wonder's breath indrawn,
Thought I—who knows—who knows—but in that
same
(Fished up beyond Aeaea, patched up new
—Stern painted brighter blue—)
That talkative, bald-headed seaman came
(Twelve patient comrades sweating at the oar)
From Troy's doom-crimson shore.
And with great lies about his wooden horse
Set the crew laughing, and forgot his course.

It was so old a ship—who knows, who knows?
—And yet so beautiful, I watched in vain
To see the mast burst open with a rose,
And the whole deck put on its leaves again.

James Elroy Flecker's poem "The Old Ships" was published in Georgian Poetry, 1913-1915. To read this poem in a digitized version of this publication, follow the links below:

Archive.org

HathiTrust 

Project Gutenberg (text version)

Fragment “. . . That night I loved you” by F.S. Flint

Fragment

. . . That night I loved you
in the candlelight.
Your golden hair
strewed the sweet whiteness of the pillows
and the counterpane.
Ο the darkness of the corners,
the warm air, and the stars
framed in the casement of the ships' lights!

[ . . . ]

F.S. Flint's poem fragment ". . . That night I loved you" was published in the 1915 Some Imagist Poets anthology. To read this poem in full in a digitized version of this publication, follow the links below:

Archive.org

HathiTrust

The Modernist Journals Project