men, women and ghosts(男人、女人和鬼魂)-第1章
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Men； Women and Ghosts
Men； Women and
Ghosts
by Amy Lowell
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Men； Women and Ghosts
Preface
This is a book of stories。 For that reason I have excluded all purely
lyrical poems。 But the word 〃stories〃 has been stretched to its fullest
application。 It includes both narrative poems； properly so called； tales
divided into scenes； and a few pieces of less obvious story…telling import
in which one might say that the dramatis personae are air； clouds； trees；
houses； streets； and such like things。
It has long been a favourite idea of mine that the rhythms of ‘vers
libre' have not been sufficiently plumbed； that there is in them a power of
variation which has never yet been brought to the light of experiment。 I
think it was the piano pieces of Debussy； with their strange likeness to
short vers libre poems； which first showed me the close kinship of music
and poetry； and there flashed into my mind the idea of using the movement
of poetry in somewhat the same way that the musician uses the movement
of music。
It was quite evident that this could never be done in the strict pattern
of a metrical form； but the flowing； fluctuating rhythm of vers libre
seemed to open the door to such an experiment。 First； however； I
considered the same method as applied to the more pronounced
movements of natural objects。 If the reader will turn to the poem； 〃A
Roxbury Garden〃； he will find in the first two sections an attempt to give
the circular movement of a hoop bowling along the ground； and the up and
down； elliptical curve of a flying shuttlecock。
From these experiments； it is but a step to the flowing rhythm of music。
In 〃The Cremona Violin〃； I have tried to give this flowing； changing
rhythm to the parts in which the violin is being played。 The effect is
farther heightened； because the rest of the poem is written in the seven line
Chaucerian stanza； and； by deserting this ordered pattern for the
undulating line of vers libre； I hoped to produce something of the suave；
continuous tone of a violin。 Again； in the violin parts themselves； the
movement constantly changes； as will be quite plain to any one reading
these passages aloud。
In 〃The Cremona Violin〃； however； the rhythms are fairly obvious and
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Men； Women and Ghosts
regular。 I set myself a far harder task in trying to transcribe the various
movements of Stravinsky's 〃Three Pieces ‘Grotesques'； for String Quartet〃。
Several musicians； who have seen the poem； think the movement
accurately given。
These experiments lead me to believe that there is here much food for
thought and matter for study； and I hope many poets will follow me in
opening up the still hardly explored possibilities of vers libre。
A good many of the poems in this book are written in 〃polyphonic
prose〃。 A form about which I have written and spoken so much that it
seems hardly necessary to explain it here。 Let me hastily add； however；
that the word 〃prose〃 in its name refers only to the typographical
arrangement； for in no sense is this a prose form。 Only read it aloud；
Gentle Reader； I beg； and you will see what you will see。 For a purely
dramatic form； I know none better in the whole range of poetry。 It enables
the poet to give his characters the vivid； real effect they have in a play；
while at the same time writing in the ‘decor'。
One last innovation I have still to mention。 It will be found in
〃Spring Day〃； and more fully enlarged upon in the series； 〃Towns in
Colour〃。 In these poems； I have endeavoured to give the colour； and
light； and shade； of certain places and hours； stressing the purely pictorial
effect； and with little or no reference to any other aspect of the places
described。 It is an enchanting thing to wander through a city looking for
its unrelated beauty； the beauty by which it captivates the sensuous sense
of seeing。
I have always loved aquariums； but for years I went to them and
looked； and looked； at those swirling； shooting； looping patterns of fish；
which always defied transcription to paper until I hit upon the 〃unrelated〃
method。 The result is in 〃An Aquarium〃。 I think the first thing which
turned me in this direction was John Gould Fletcher's 〃London Excursion〃；
in 〃Some Imagist Poets〃。 I here record my thanks。
For the substance of the poems why； the poems are here。 No one
writing to…day can fail to be affected by the great war raging in Europe at
this time。 We are too near it to do more than touch upon it。 But；
obliquely； it is suggested in many of these poems； most notably those in
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Men； Women and Ghosts
the section； 〃Bronze Tablets〃。 The Napoleonic Era is an epic subject； and
waits a great epic poet。 I have only been able to open a few windows
upon it here and there。 But the scene from the windows is authentic； and
the watcher has used eyes； and ears； and heart； in watching。
Amy Lowell
July 10； 1916。
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Men； Women and Ghosts
Figurines in Old Saxe
Patterns
I walk down the garden paths； And all the daffodils Are blowing； and
the bright blue squills。 I walk down the patterned garden…paths In my stiff；
brocaded gown。 With my powdered hair and jewelled fan； I too am a rare
Pattern。 As I wander down The garden paths。
My dress is richly figured； And the train Makes a pink and silver stain
On the gravel； and the thrift Of the borders。 Just a plate of current fashion；
Tripping by in high…heeled； ribboned shoes。 Not a softness anywhere
about me； Only whalebone and brocade。 And I sink on a seat in the shade
Of a lime tree。 For my passion Wars against the stiff brocade。 The
daffodils and squills Flutter in the breeze As they please。 And I weep； For
the lime…tree is in blossom And one small flower has dropped upon my
bosom。
And the plashing of waterdrops In the marble fountain Comes down
the garden…paths。 The dripping never stops。 Underneath my stiffened gown
Is the softness of a woman bathing in a marble basin； A basin in the midst
of hedges grown So thick； she cannot see her lover hiding； But she guesses
he is near； And the sliding of the water Seems the stroking of a dear Hand
upon her。 What is Summer in a fine brocaded gown！ I should like to see it
lying in a heap upon the ground。 All the pink and silver crumpled up on
the ground。
I would be the pink and silver as I ran along the paths； And he would
stumble after； Bewildered by my laughter。 I should see the sun flashing
from his sword…hilt and the buckles on his shoes。 I would choose To
lead him in a maze along the patterned paths； A bright and laughing maze
for my heavy…booted lover； Till he caught me in the shade； And the buttons
of his waistcoat bruised my body as he clasped me； Aching； melting；
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unafraid。 With the shadows of the leaves and the sundrops； And the
plopping of the waterdrops； All about us in the open afternoon I am very
like to swoon With the weight of this brocade； For the sun sifts through the
shade。
Underneath the fallen blossom In my bosom； Is a letter I have hid。 It
was brought to me this morning by a rider from the Duke。 〃Madam； we
regret to inform you that Lord Hartwell Died in action Thursday
se'nnight。〃 As I read it in the white； morning sunlight； The letters squirmed
like snakes。 〃Any answer； Madam；〃 said my footman。 〃No；〃 I told him。
〃See that the messenger takes some refreshment。 No； no answer。〃 And I
walked into the garden； Up and down the patterned paths； In my stiff；
correct brocade。 The blue and yellow flowers stood up proudly in the sun；
Each one。 I stood upright too； Held rigid to the pattern By the stiffness of
my gown。 Up and down I walked； Up and down。
In a month he would have been my husband。 In a month； here；
underneath this lime； We would have broke the pattern； He for me； and I
for him； He as Colonel； I as Lady； On this shady seat。 He had a whim That
sunlight carried blessing。 And I answered； 〃It shall be as you have said。〃
Now he is dead。
In Summer and in Winter I shall walk Up and down The patterned
garden…paths In my stiff； brocaded gown。 The squills and daffodils Will
give place to pillared roses； and to asters； and to snow。 I shall go Up and
down； In my gown。 Gorgeously arrayed； Boned and stayed。 And the
softness of my body will be guarded from embrace By each button； hook；
and lace。 For the man who should loose me is dead； Fighting with the
Duke in Flanders； In a pattern called a war。 Christ！ What are patterns
for？
Pickthorn Manor
I
How fresh the Dartle's little waves that day！ A steely silver；
underlined with blue； And flashing where the round clouds； blown away；
Let drop the yellow sunshine to gleam through And tip the edges of the
