Harry Graham (25)

Ein historisches Gedicht aus »Baby's Baedeker« (1902):

Harry Graham: Russia

The Russian Empire, as you see, 

    Is governed by an Autocrat,  

A sort of human target he  

   For anarchists to practise at;  

And much relieved most people are  

Not to be lodging with the Czar.

 

The Russian lets his whiskers grow,  

   Smokes cigarettes at meal-times, and  

Imbibes more ›vodki‹ than ›il faut‹; 

   A habit which (I understand)  

Enables him with ease to tell  

His name, which nobody could spell.

The climate here is cold, with snow,  

   And you go driving in a sleigh,  

With bells and all the rest, you know,  

   Just like a Henry Irving play;  

While, all around you, glare the eyes 

Of secret officers and spies!

 

The Russian prisons have no drains,  

   No windows or such things as that;  

You have no playthings there but chains, 

   And no companion but a rat;  

When once behind the dungeon door,  

Your friends don't see you any more.

 

I further could enlarge, 'tis true,  

   But fear my trembling pen confines; 

I have no wish to travel to  

   Siberia and work the mines. 

(In Russia you must write with care, 

Or the police will take you there.)

 

Moral:

If you hold morbid views about
   A monarch's premature decease,  
You only need a — Hi! Look out!  
   Here comes an agent of police!
      *        *       *       *                      
(In future my address will be
›Siberia, Cell 63.‹)

Zwischenbilanz

Zwischenbilanz

Ich habe Nietzsche leider nie verstanden,
und jeder Satz von Kant klingt mir zu klug.
Von Platon hatte ich schon früh genug,
und Spengler kann erst recht nicht bei mir landen.

Bloch schrieb ein Deutsch, das ich nie ganz ertrug.
Marcuses Schriften kamen mir abhanden.
An Marx und Engels trau ich mich nicht ran, denn
ich läs ihr Werk wohl kaum in einem Zug.

Von Weber will ich weiter nichts berichten.
Die Bücher Butlers sind zu voll und leer.
Adorno harmoniert nicht mit Gedichten.

Mein Kopf wird mir bei Schopenhauer schwer.
Auf Heidegger kann ich sehr gut verzichten.
Jetzt weiß ich keine Philosophen mehr.

Harry Graham (24)

 Aus »Adam's Apples«:

Harry Graham: Wine

The Connoisseur may laud liqueur
   (As made by monks in cloisters)
Or rave about the velvet stout
   That's used to wash down oysters;
Such drinks are not for me or mine,
The only drink I need is WINE!

The haggis-ridden Scot may bid
  For whiskey (with a kilt on);
The men of Wales baptize with ales
   Each mute but glorious Stilton;
But when off cheese or tripe I dine
My single beverage is WINE!
 
Though 'twould appear that Lager beer
   Possesses far more finesse
(And much more gas) than, say, a Bass,
   A Worthington or Guinness,
The only product of the Rhine
That I am keen about is WINE.

Though brandy may, so people say,
   Be termed the drink for heroes,
And for one's aunt a Crême de Menthe
   Seems popular at Ciro's,
At peppermint I draw the line,
The nectar of the gods was WINE!

The old sea-dog must have his grog,
   When on the briny ocean,
And dukes on yachts use rum in tots
   As a laryngean lotion;
But when I sail across the brine
I never touch a thing but WINE.

In cocktail bars the sons of Mars
   Call loudly for a Cointreau,
To stand their pals (or Chorus Gals
   Selected from the frointreau!).
I hate the taste of turpentine,
And so I call instead for WINE.

Yes, give me port (the vintage sort),
   Champagne and hock and claret
And e'en Moselle, and I shall dwell
   Contented in a garret.
In exile I would never pine
If I were well supplied with WINE.

I would not grudge a ten-mile trudge
   From Palma to Tampico
If at the end I found a blend
   Brewed by the widowed Clicquot.
(But Mexico, so I opine,
Has never been renowned for WINE.)

I'd walk from Dan to Askalan,
   From Beershaba to Shechem,
Could I be sure I'd thus procure
   A flask of Château-Yquem.
(But I'm afraid that Palestine
Is not the home of vintage WINE.)

Then bring me wine, blest anodyne
   That makes men care-forgetful
Till human swine grow quite benign,
    Than porcupines less fretful.
No pow'r divine can so refine
The Phillistine as that of WINE.

So let's combine before its shrine
   To sing with vinous unction,
Ere we recline upon the spine,
   And wits decline to function,
While still, in fine, we can design
Some eight or nine new rhymes to WINE!

Harry Graham (23)

Noch ein Wintersportgedicht aus »More Ruthless Rhymes for Heartless Homes«:

Harry Graham: Patience

When skiing in the Engadine
My hat blew off down a ravine.
My son, who went to fetch it back,
Slipped through an icy glacier's crack
And then got permanently stuck.
It really was infernal luck:
My hat was practically new –
I loved my little Henry too –
And I may have to wait for years
Till either of them reappears.

Harry Graham (22)

Aus »More Ruthless Rhymes for Heartless Homes«:

Harry Graham: Presence of Mind

When, with my little daughter Blanche,
   I climbed the Alps, last summer,
I saw a dreadful avalanche
   About to overcome her;
And, as it swept her down the slope,
   I vaguely wondered whether
I should be wise to cut the rope
   That held us twain together.
              *     *    *
I must confess I'm glad I did,
But still I miss the child – poor kid!

Harry Graham (21)

Ein Jagdgedicht aus »The Motley Muse« (glücklicherweise mehr Lehrer als Löns):

Harry Graham: The Sporting Spirit

[»The emotional surprise and the unexpected suddenness in the rise of game require great accuracy, rapidity, and nerve control, and experience is in my favour that there are some who are improved in these essentials of good shooting by a little alcohol at lunch.«—Dr. T. Claye Shaw in the Times.]

It once was my habit to miss ev'ry rabbit
At which I might happen to fire;
I wasted each cartridge despatching some partridge
To die in a neighbouring shire.
By nature ungainly, I struggled, but vainly,
A duck or a woodcock to kill,
And cut a poor figure when pressing the trigger
With far greater vigour than skill,
Until, all at once, I discovered a tonic,
And now (so to speak) my adroitness is chronic!

A flask of old brandy I always keep handy,
And, after an opportune nip,
My wits are collected, my aim is corrected,
My weapon with firmness I grip.
I notice, untroubled, that all things are doubled;
Two outlines I hazily trace
Of ev'ry cock-pheasant, and shooting grows pleasant
When each single bird is a brace;
Each teal has a twin, ev'ry black-cock a brother,
And so I am bound to hit one or the other!

My methods may flurry those neighbours in Surrey
Whose eyes I persistently wipe,
And startle the Vicar whom once, when in liquor,
I shot, in mistake for a snipe;
At Bolton or Belvoir my faithful retriever
Retrieves more than any dog there;
No bag is so heavy as that which I levy
At Welbeck, so what do I care?
Sustained by old brandy, in covert or stubble,
My fame (and my game) I can daily redouble!

Harry Graham (20)

Aus »The Motley Muse«:

Harry Graham: Police Court Sense

['The evidence that I heard totally failed to satisfy me that he was drunk at all in what, for want of a better definition of the term, I may call the Police Court sense.'—Mr. Chester Jones.]

When Uncle Edward comes to dine,
He drinks such quantities of wine,
You never know
How far he'll go,
Or what he'll leave unsaid;
He frequently insults his host,
And quotes things from the Winning Post,
Until, with sighs,
His friends arise
And bear him off to bed.
But as they leave him in his bunk,
With what a joy intense
They realise he is not drunk—
In the Police Court sense!

He played bezique with me, one day,
To find that, at the close of play,
He'd lost each game;
The total came
To three pounds seventeen.
He never paid a cent of that,
And took away my new top-hat,
Leaving behind
A hideous kind
Of gibus, old and green.
But still it filled me with relief,
Observing his offence,
To think that he was not a thief—
In the Police Court sense!

The details of his private life,
The way he treats his luckless wife,
Make all aware
That he can care
For nothing but himself;
But what on earth is she to do,
Though snubbed and beaten black and blue?
To sue, of course,
For a divorce
Would be a waste of pelf.
Yet, all the same, my aunt avows,
It saves her much expense
To feel she has a faithful spouse—
In the Police Court sense! 

Harry Graham (19)

Ein Frühlingslied aus »The Motley Muse«:

Harry Graham: Spring

When the hand of ev'ry Briton, 'spite of glove or woolly mitten,
By the frost severely bitten, grows as frigid as a stone,
When he scuttles like a lizard through the bitter biting blizzard,
Which benumbs his very gizzard and which chills him to the bone;
When the constable stands scowling, where the hurricane is howling,
Or goes miserably prowling, with no shelter from the storm,
And the working-man, half-fuddled, jug to bosom closely cuddled,
In each public-house is huddled, in his efforts to get warm;
Then the poet (known as 'minor') deems it suitable to sing
That there's nothing much diviner than the pleasures of the Spring!

When the maiden, matinéeing, from some playhouse portals straying
(Where her favourite is playing), grows as crusty as a crab,
While her fiancé ungainly—so unlike dear Harry Ainley!—
In the snow is seeking vainly (ah! how vainly!) for a cab;
When he cusses and she fusses, as they note how full each 'bus is
Of that crowd of oafs and hussies it refuses to disgorge,
Till they hail some passing taxi, with expressions wild and waxy
(Like the language Leo Maxse always uses of Lloyd George)!
With her windswept skirt she battles, to his hat he tries to cling,
While the poet sweetly prattles of the pleasures of the Spring!

Though I hate to be pedantic, and it may seem unromantic,
I am driven nearly frantic when I hear the praises sung
Of those ruthless vernal breezes which engender coughs and sneezes
And disseminate diseases in the ranks of old and young.
So, although it sounds like treason, when I celebrate this season,
I will mix my rhymes with reason, and substantiate, I trust,
That there's nought so uninviting, so depressing, and so blighting,
As the time of which I'm writing with such genuine disgust.
As I hover round the fender, and for fuel loudly ring,
I decline to see the splendour or the witchery of Spring!

Harry Graham (18)

Ein Gedicht aus »Misrepresentative Men« (1904):

Harry Graham: Joan of Arc 

From Pimlico to Central Park,
From Timbuctoo to Rotten Row,
Who has not heard of Joan of Arc,
His tragic tale who does not know?
And how he put his life to stake,
For Principle and Country's sake?

This simple person of Lorraine
Had thoughts for nothing but Romance,
And longed to see a king again
Upon the battered throne of France;
(With Charles the Seventh crowned at Rheims,
He realized his fondest dreams.)

Then came the fight at Compiègne,
Where he was captured by the foe,
And lots of vulgar foreign men
Caught hold and wouldn't let him go.
»Please don't!« he begged them, in despair,
»You're disarranging all my hair.«

Unmoved by grace of form or face,
These brutes, whose hearts were quite opaque,
At Rouen, in the market-place,
Secured him tightly to a stake;
(Behaviour which cannot be viewed
As other than extremely rude.)

Poor Joan of Arc, of course, was bound
To be the centre of the show,
When, having piled the faggots round,
They lit him up and let him go.
(Which surely strikes the modern mind
As thoughtless, not to say unkind.)

But tho' he died, his deathless name
In Hist'ry holds a noble place,
And brings the blush of conscious shame
To any Anglo-Saxon face.
Perfidious truly was the nation
Which caused his premature cremation!

∗       ∗       ∗      

I showed these verses to a friend,
Inviting him to criticise;
He read them slowly to the end,
Then asked me, with a mild surprise,
»What was your object,« he began,
»In making Joan of Arc a man?«

I hastened to the library
Which kind Carnegie gave the town,
Searched Section B. (Biography.)
And took six bulky volumes down;
Then studied all one livelong night,
And found (alas!) my friend was right.

I'm sorry; for it gives me pain
To think of such a waste of rhyme.
I'd write the poem all again,
Only I can't afford the time;
It's rather late to change it now,—
I can't be bothered anyhow.

Harry Graham (17)

Nachtrag zum Valentinstag: ein recht romantisches Gedicht aus »Adam's Apples« (1930):

Harry Graham: The Siren

'Mid summertime's fantastic heat,
When urban pavements parch the feet,
To some far loophole of retreat
   Our drowsy thoughts go straying;
In bondage on each office-stool,
We dream of caverns dim and cool,
Of shady grots beside some pool
   Where nymphs and fauns are playing,
Where timid dryads coyly scatter
In flight before the local satyr.

While some (the more romantic chaps)
May plan a walking-tour, perhaps,
Where coloured counties spread their maps
   For Shropshire lads on Bredon,
And some (the richer fellows) plot
A cruise to Lapland in a yacht,
And thus enjoy, if polyglot,
   The voice that breathes o'er Sweden,
And others yearn for Monte Carlo,
For Fontainebleau, or even Marlow,

Much simpler travel-tastes have I;
My needs the humblest joys supply;
I never try to aim too high,
   Nor choose too large a target,
For I recall (sweet souvenir!)
The holiday I spent, last year,
In seaside lodgings with my dear
   Aunt Ramsgaret at Margate*,
With whom and where that blest vacation
Was one long round of dissipation.

* Should this not be »Aunt Margaret at Ramsgate«? – Pub.
   Yes. – H.G.

Each morning she would take the air,
Propelled by me in a bath-chair –
That is, the weather being fair
   And other things propitious.
Then home to lunch we gaily hied,
And though, I own, the meal supplied
Erred somewhat on the frugal side,
   The mince was quite delicious,
And tapioca, too, would follow,
With lumps that were sheer joy to swallow.

Each afternoon, from three to five,
We hired a fly and took a drive –
Of vehicles one could contrive
   No nicer form to ride in –
And then upon the pier we'd sit,
Enjoying all that (you'll admit)
Makes England still a country fit
   For Pierrots to reside in;
And oh! what talks we'd have together
About our ailments and the weather!

On stormy mornings we'd remain
Indoors, and Aunt would not complain,
Declaring that she liked the rain,
   It made her fringe so wavy!
And if the afternoons were wet
She would produce her wireless set,
And we would very often get
   Morse signals from the Navy
Or howlings from some foreign station
Which she ascribed to oscillation.

Sea-bathing was a sport I'd planned,
But the authorities had banned
Undressing on the open strand,
   And though a Nature-lover
Might deem such regulations strange,
They would not suffer a sea-change
Unless one somehow could arrange
   To do it under cover;
Attempts to shed one's underclothing
In public they beheld with loathing.

Though this was something of a blow,
My habits I would not forgo –
»Aut nec aut nihil,«* as you know,
   Has always been my motto –
And, after tea, when Auntie lay
Upon her couch, I'd slip away
To a sequestered little bay
   Where (in a cave or grotto)
My garment's plenary removal
Could meet with no one's disapproval.

* »Neck or nothing.«

One evening, as I doffed my socks,
I noticed here upon the rocks
A maiden with peroxide locks
   Who sat and watched me stripping.
She wore a one-piece bathing-suit
And was a most attractive »beaut,«
And when she said: »Hullo, old fruit!«
   I felt that I was slipping.
And when she giggled rather sweetly
I knew that I had fall'n completely!

Then up she sprang and, like a shot,
(She was a lovesome thing, God wot!)
She bolted from the cave or grot
   And leapt into the briny.
She sank like – was it Milton said? –
A daystar in the ocean bed,
The reared anon her dripping head
   As, with her eyes all shiny,
She shouted: »Catch me if you can, sir!«
And dived again like a merganser!

A moment's start was all I gave,
Then darted from my grot or cave,
And through the cool translucent wave
   Pursued the nymph and caught her;
In vain she struggled to escape;
I seized her firmly by the nape
(Which was of most convenient shape)
   And home rejoicing brought her.
»Oh, fie!« she cried, »You didn't otto!«
But »Neck or nothing« – that's my motto!

'Twas thus our love-affair began.
Each day, as to that cave I ran,
The offing for her form I'd scan,
   I couldn't live without it!
She looked so sweet in deshabille,
And when she kept an even keel
She seemed as graceful as a seal –
   I spoke to her about it.
She answered: »What of your vile corpus?
No doubt 'twas made like that on porpoise!«

Ah, yes, she'd such a sense of fun,
She dearly loved a harmless pun;
I well remember making one
   That specially rejoiced her.
As we were swimming through a shoal,
I murmured: »There's no plaice like sole!«
And on a breakwater (or mole)
   Suggested I should »'oist-'er!«
She smiled a smile so quaint, so elfish,
And said: »That would be very shellfish!«

She was the trimmest little craft
(Conspicuously so abaft),
And how I loved her when she chaffed
   And said that I was her »buoy,«
For she was so »attached« to me!
And when she perched upon my knee,
Just like a mermaid from the sea,
   And whispered: »Atta Merboy!«
The very lobsters started blushing;
The tide went out as far as Flushing.

Such happiness was doomed, alas!
My Aunt, to watch The Skylark pass,
One evening, through her op'ra-glass
   Quite innocently gazing,
Observed us sporting in the foam;
Her colour changed from puce to chrome,
She hurried forth and dragged me home,
   Her eyes with anger blazing,
And packed me off, next morning early,
To »Kenilworth,« my home near Purley.

I've never met my Siren since,
And yet, whenever I eat mince
Or tapioca, I evince
   Strong symptoms of emotion.
In retrospect I see her still,
Broadbased upon that rocky sill,
Submerged or compassed (as you will)
   By the inviolate ocean!
And distance does but serve to heighten
The mem'ry of our time at Brighton!*

* Should this not be »Margate«? – Ed.
   No. Ramsgate. – H.G.