In My Dreams
by Stevie Smith
In my dreams I am always saying goodbye and riding away,
Whither and why I know not, nor do I care.
And the parting is sweet and the parting over is sweeter,
And the sweetest of all is the night and the rushing air.
In my dreams they are always waving their hands and saying goodbye,
And they give me the stirrup cup and I smile as I drink,
I am glad the journey is set, I am glad that I am going,
I am glad, I am glad, that my friends don't know what I think.
.----
Thanks to Outis for the shift + enter tip.
Very brief poem by Stevie Smith, from England's North Country. The relative length of the lines, though, adds to the feeling of always riding on. I think Smith understands that there's something in us that doesn't really want to be understood.
We don't often hear about stirrup cups and that's a shame, because a lot of them are wild and beautiful.
1 comment:
From what I've read about her Stevie Smith really didn't want to be understood. It was interesting to learn that she never read contemporary poetry only those written by poets long dead, apparently in order not to be influenced by the work of her contemporaries. That certainly explains the phrasing and meter of the poem like 'A House of Mercy':
It was a house of female habitation,
Two ladies fair inhabited the house,
And they were brave. For although Fear knocked loud
Upon the door, and said he must come in,
They did not let him in.
This one poem of Stevie Smith's you transcribed caught my heart. It's almost unbearably poignant in its way as was Not Waving but Drowning. That she called herself 'a lapsed athiest' showed her wit and intelligence when facing reporter's idiot questions. I think she would have made a fine Poet Laureate but I doubt she would have accepted the position - well, perhaps not.
It was fascinating to read that Stevie Smith performed her poetry in the 60's - it would have been an interesting experience to attend one of them. Thanks for the introduction to her work.
https://www.theparisreview.org/blog/2015/03/12/poetry-costumes/
The first thing you note when looking at a stirrup is that it can't be placed flat on a table unless, of course, it's empty.
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