sword blades & poppy seed-第1节
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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
Askin
