An Old Fashioned Traveller on the Trade Routes

AN OLD-FASHIONED TRAVELLER ON THE TRADE ROUTES

I was sitting upstairs in a bus, cursing the waste of time, and pouring my life away on one of those insane journeys across London — while gradually the wavering motion of this precarious glass salon, that flung us about softly like trusses of wheat or Judo Lords, began its medicinal work inside the magnetic landscape of London.

The bus, with its transparent decks of people, trembled. And was as uniquely ceremonious in propelling itself as an eminent Jellyfish with an iron will, by explusions, valves, hisses, steams, and emotional respirations. A militant, elementary, caparisoned Jellyfish, of the feminine sex, systematically eating and drinking the sea.

I began to feel as battered as though I had been making love all night. My limbs distilled the same interesting wide-awake weariness.

We went forward at a swimmer’s pace, gazing through the walls that rocked the weather about like a cloudy drink from a chemist’s shop — with the depth and sting of the Baltic. The air-shocks the sulphur dioxides, the gelatin ignitions We were all of us parcelled up in mud-coloured clothes, dreaming, while the rich perishable ensemble — as stuffy and exclusive as a bag of fish and chips, or as an Eskimo’s bed in a glass drift — cautiously advanced as though on an exercise from a naval college.

The jogging was consistently idiotic, it induced a feeling of complete security. I gave up my complicated life on the spot; and lay screwed up like an old handkerchief screwed up in a pocket, suspended in time, ready to go to the ends of the earth. O trans-Siberian railways Balloons Astronauts.

Rosemary Tonks

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The Toys

My little Son, who look’d from thoughtful eyes 
And moved and spoke in quiet grown-up wise, 
Having my law the seventh time disobey’d, 
I struck him, and dismiss’d 
With hard words and unkiss’d, 
His Mother, who was patient, being dead. 
Then, fearing lest his grief should hinder sleep, 
I visited his bed, 
But found him slumbering deep, 
With darken’d eyelids, and their lashes yet 
From his late sobbing wet. 
And I, with moan, 
Kissing away his tears, left others of my own; 
For, on a table drawn beside his head, 
He had put, within his reach, 
A box of counters and a red-vein’d stone, 
A piece of glass abraded by the beach 
And six or seven shells, 
A bottle with bluebells 
And two French copper coins, ranged there with careful art, 
To comfort his sad heart. 
So when that night I pray’d 
To God, I wept, and said: 
Ah, when at last we lie with tranced breath, 
Not vexing Thee in death, 
And Thou rememberest of what toys 
We made our joys, 
How weakly understood, 
Thy great commanded good, 
Then, fatherly not less 
Than I whom Thou hast moulded from the clay, 
Thou’lt leave Thy wrath, and say, 
‘I will be sorry for their childishness.’

 

Coventry Patmore

 

Departure

Departure

It was not like your great and gracious ways! 
Do you, that have nought other to lament, 
Never, my Love, repent 
Of how, that July afternoon, 
You went, 
With sudden, unintelligible phrase, 
And frighten’d eye, 
Upon your journey of so many days, 
Without a single kiss, or a good-bye? 
I knew, indeed, that you were parting soon; 
And so we sate, within the low sun’s rays, 
You whispering to me, for your voice was weak, 
Your harrowing praise. 
Well, it was well, 
To hear you such things speak, 
And I could tell 
What made your eyes a growing gloom of love, 
As a warm South-wind sombres a March grove. 
And it was like your great and gracious ways 
To turn your talk on daily things, my Dear, 
Lifting the luminous, pathetic lash 
To let the laughter flash, 
Whilst I drew near, 
Because you spoke so low that I could scarcely hear. 
But all at once to leave me at the last, 
More at the wonder than the loss aghast, 
With huddled, unintelligible phrase, 
And frighten’d eye, 
And go your journey of all days 
With not one kiss, or a good-bye, 
And the only loveless look the look with which you pass’d: 
‘Twas all unlike your great and gracious ways.

 

Coventry Patmore

The Magi

Now as at all times I can see in the mind’s eye,

In their stiff, painted clothes, the pale unsatisfied ones

Appear and disappear in the blue depth of the sky

With all their ancient faces like rain-beaten stones,

And all their helms of silver hovering side by side,

And all their eyes still fixed, hoping to find once more,

Being by Calvary’s turbulence unsatisfied,

The uncontrollable mystery on the bestial floor.

 

W .B.Yeats

White Heliotrope

The feverish room and that white bed,
The tumbled skirts upon a chair,
The novel flung half-open, where
Hat, hair-pins, puffs, and paints, are spread;

The mirror that has sucked your face
Into its secret deep of deeps;
And there mysteriously keeps
Forgotten memories of grace;

And you, half dressed and half awake,
Your slant eyes strangely watching me,
And I, who watch you drowsily,
With eyes that, having slept not, ache;

This (need one dread? nay, dare one hope?)
Will rise, a ghost of memory, if
Ever again my hankercheif
Is scented with White Heliotrope.

Arthur Symons