Poem by Arthur Graeme West

Spurned by the Gods

Last night, O God, I climbed up to thy house
So loving-passionate towards thee, that not
The sharp loose flintstones hurt my feet, the blood
That the sword-grassed and low brambles drew
Whipping my ankles, flowed without a smart.
The moment lent me wings, and poired divine
And glowing ichor pelting through my veins
Chasing the slow cold brook; hot blinding torrents
Of irised glory beat upon my eyes,
And in my throbbing ears there did arise
The mighty shouts of Gods at festival.
There I, thy daughter, thy frail child, half-dead
From my great love to thee, choking with sobs
And panting lungs, may soul rapt to the sphere
Where quires the eternal music, my poor body
Affrighted that these ears should drink the hymns
Of Gods and Heroes, lowly on my knees
I crouched before thee, and resigned my life
To thee, o’erpowered by the trembling ecstasy
Of deity’s completest immanence.
I waited: hardly breathing, hour on hour
Through the peering night, wishing that all the strength
Of thine unshamèd myriad-formed desire
And manly fervour, might delight in me,
And like the sacred fire, seize me and so
Consume me utterly.
                                    Oh, sweet renown
Of Danæ and Europa! Fierce white bull,
Would I have asked thee mercy? Mercy! I,
I would have bared my breast to horns and hoofs
And joyed to feel thy hot breath on my face
To have thee gore and trample me, to die
A kneaded quivering mass, thy splendid horns
And swinging dewlap dripping hot with blood.
Or hadst thou come as erst to Danæ — gold
In heavy stunning cataracts, red gold
Beating me down, staining the lilied skin,
As summer hailstorms ravish the frail vines,
Stamping them in churned mud: would I have whimpered
’Neath the tremendous lashes of they love?
Nay, as I fainted into happy death,
Smothered in the embraces of they golden arms,
A panting reef of gold, each several piece
Would seem to lie upon me like a rose,
And I should dream I was a child again
Buried in cowslips.
                                  This was what I prayed.
I offered thee no empty sacrifices,
No locks of hair, nor entrails of a brute,
I offered thee myself, my loveliness,
I kept it all for thee, I was not timid,
Not coy before the King of Gods — and thou,
Thou drab uxorious tyrant, sate at feast,
Champing the meat, and craned thy neck, and leered
Upon me, naked on the ground, then beckoned
To Juno and in suasive wheedling tones
Murmuring in her ear, pointed to me,
Thy silly sentimental votary;
And all the gods flocked round, as once they did
Round Aphrodite, strained in golden mesh
To Ares’ flanks:  “Loud laughter shook the sides
Of all the blessed gods” — The blessed gods! And I
Grew cold and fearful, my disheveled hair
Was damp with dew, the fires of adoration
Flickered, burnt blue, and died in smoky doubt.
Thou had’st not come: once more thou had’st not come;
Once more I stumbled through the cold dead light
Of windy dawn, along the rocky path;
No little stone but stabbed now, no sly blade
Of grass or bramble but deliberately
Sawed through my skin until I cried.
                                                            I lurked
Deep in the wild wood, durst not face the eyes
Of the village fold — but thee I could not fly.
Thou took’st a satyr’s form, from every shadow
Glinted thy grinning teeth, I heard thy laugh
In the cry of the magpie, mocking they poor dupe.
The burden of intolerable shame
That thou hast bound me, thou wilt not touch
To lighten with thy finger —

1. The Night Patrol France, March 1916
2. Seeing Her off
3. On Reading Ballads
4. The End of the Second Year
5. God! How I Hate You!

Print

1368 Views

Last Poems

To Russian version