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The Lovers' Alphabet
The Lovers' Alphabet was Crowley's attempt to write a series of 26 poems from A to Z associating a woman's name with a flower of the same initial. Crowley's Confessions provides a bit of background information on what he was trying to achieve:
His publication The God Eater shows that as of 1903 The Lover's Alphabet was "in preparation." Correspondence from Crowley to Gerald Kelly in January of 1903 shows that he was clearly working on The Lover's Alphabet. At that point he had 44 poems prepared and was planning an additional dozen more. Later Correspondence from August shows that he was planning to use art from Kelly, Penrhyn Stanlaws, Maurice Grieffenhagen and Auguste Rodin to illustrate the publication.
The "debris" from The Lover's Alphabet is collected below.
The Lovers' Alphabet
ANNIE
Anemones grow in the wood by the stream; And the song of the spring in our garden Wakes life to the shape of an exquisite dream; And reason of passion asks pardon.
I made up a posy by moonlight, a rose, And a violet white from its cranny, And a bluebell, and stole, on the tips of my toes, At the dark of the night to my Annie.
Her window was open; she slept like a child; So I laid the three flowers on her breast, And stole back alone through the forest deep-aisled, To dream of the lass I loved best.
And the next night I lay half awake on my bed, When—a foot-fall as soft as the breeze! Oh! never a word nor a whisper she said To disturb the low song of the trees.
But she crept to my side. Awhile we lay close: Then: “Have pardon and pity for me!” She whispered—“your bluebell and violet and rose I can give but one flower for three.”
BRUNNHILDE.*
The sword that was broken is perfect: the hero is here Be done with the dwarfs and be done with the spirit of fear!
Hark! the white note of a bird; and the path is declared; The sword is girt on, and the dragon is summoned and dared.
Be down with the dragons! Awaits for the lord of the sword On the crest of a mountain the maid, the availing award.
The spear of the Wanderer shivers, the God is exhaust. Be done with the Gods! the key of Valhalla is lost.
The fires that Loki the liar built up of deceit Are the roses that cushion the moss for the warrior's feet.
Be done with the paltry defences! She sleeps. O be done With he mists of the mountain! Awake to the light of the sun!
Awake! Let the wave of emotions conflicting retire, Let fear and despair be engulfed in delight and desire.
There is one thing of all that remains: that the sword may not bite: It is love that is true as itself; and their scion, delight.
True flower of the flame of love: true bloom of the ray of the sword! The lady is lost if she wit not the name of her lord.
Awaken and hither, O warrior maiden! Above. The Man is awaiting. Be done with the lies! It is love.
* See Wagner, from whose "Ring of the Nibelungs" the symbolism of this poem is taken.
DORA.
Dora steals across the floor Tiptoe;
Opens then her rosy door, Peeps out.
“Nobody! And where shall I Skip to?”
Dora, diving daintily, Creeps out.
“To the woodland! Shall I find Crowtoe,
Violet, jessamine! I'll bind Garlands
Fancy I'm a princess. Where Go to?
Persia, China, Finistere? Far lands!”
Pity Dora! Only one Daisy
Did she find. The sulking sun Slept still.
Dora stamped her foot. Aurora Lazy
Stirred not. Hush! A footstep. Dora Kept still.
What a dreadful monster! Shoot! Mercy!
('Twas a man.) Suppose the brute Are her?
By-and-by the ruffian grows “Percy.”
And she loves him now she knows Better.
FATIMA.*
Fraught with the glory of a dead despair, My purple eidola, my purple eidola March, dance—through hyacinthine spheres Moaning: they sweep along, attain, aware How frail is Fatima. They bathe the Gods with stinging tears. They weave another thread within the mystic veil. They are drawn up anon in some great hand. They shudder and murmur in the web of Kama. They hear no music in the white word Rama. They rush, colossi, liquid swords of life Strident with spurious desire and strife. Mocked! I am dumb: I await the gray command: I wait for Her: Inscrutable darkness through the storm Loomed out, with broidered features of gold: its form Wing-like lay on the firmaments, River-like curves in all its movements Swift from inertia of vast voids rolled, stirred Gigantic for roar of strepitation: whirred The essential All That was Her veil: her voice I had heard Had not large sobbing fears surged; will and word Fall Down from the black pearls of the night, down, back To night's impearléd black; Down, from chryselephantine wall And rose-revolving ball. Doomed, fierce through Saturn's aeons to tear, Fraught with the glory of a dead despair.
* Written in collaboration with S.M.
FLAVIA.
I kissed the face of Flavia fair, In the deep wet dews of dawn, And the ruddy weight of my lover's hair Fell over me and held me there On the broad Italian lawn.
And the bright Italian moon arose And cleft the cypress grove; For sadness in all beauty grows, And sorrow from its master knows How to appear like love.
Alas! that Falvia's gentle kiss, And Flavia's cool caress, And Flavia's flower of utter bliss Must fade, must cease, must fall and miss The height of happiness.
The moon must set, the sun must rise, The wind of dawn is chill. Oh, in this world of miseries Is one hour's pleasure ill to prize? Is love the means of ill?
Oh, if there were a God to hear! Or Christ had really given His life! Or did a Dove appear Bearing a rosebud, we might fear Or hope for hell or heaven.
Alas! no sign is given. But short Bliss of the earth is ours; The kiss that stops the avenging thought; The furtive passion shrewdly caught Between the summer flowers.
So, Flavia, till the dawn awake Cling close, cling close, as this is! While moonlight lingers on the lake, Our present happiness we'll take And fill the night with kisses!
KATIE CARR.
'Twas, dark when church was out! the moon Was low on Rossett Ghyll; The organ's melancholy tune Grew subtle, far, and still.
All drest in black, her white, white throat Like moonlight gleamed; she moved Along the road, towards the farm, Too happy to be loved.
“O Katie Carr! how sweet you are!” She only hurried faster: She found an arm about her waist: A maiden knows her master.
Through grass and heather we walked together; So hard her heart still beat She thought she saw a ghost, and fast Flickered the tiny feet.
“O Katie Carr, there's one stile more! For your sweet love I'm dying. There's no one near; there's nought to fear.” The lassie burst out crying.
“From Wastdale Head to Kirkstone Pass There's ne'er a lass like Kate:”— The gentle child looked up and smiled And kissed me frank and straight.
The night was dark, the stars were few:— Should love need moon or star? Let him decide who wins a bride The peer of Katie Carr.
NORAH.
Norah, my wee shy child of wonderment, You are sweeter than a swallow-song at dusk! You are braver than a lark that soars and trills His lofty laughter of love to a hundred hills! You lie like a sweet nut within the husk Of my big arms; and uttermost content I have of you, my tiny fairy, eh? Do you live in a flower, I wonder, and sleep and pray To the good God to send you dew at dawn And rain in rain's soft season, and sun betimes, And all the gladness of the afterglow When you come shyly out of the folded bud, Unsheath your dainty soul, bathe it in blood Of my heart? Do you love me? Do you know How I love you? Do you love these twittering rhymes I string you? Is your tiny life withdrawn Into its cup for modesty when I sing So softly to you and hold you in my hands, You wild, wee wonder of wisdom? Now I bring My lips to your body an touch you reverently, Knowing as I know what Gabriel understands When he spreads his wings above for canopy When you would sleep, you frail angelic thing Like a tiny snowdrop in its own life curled— But oh! the biggest heart in all the world!
MARY.
Mary, Mary, subtle and softly breathing, Look once eager out of the eyes upon me, Draw one sigh, resign and abide in maiden Beauty for ever!
Love me, love me, love me as I desire it, Strong sweet draughts not drawn of a well of passion, Truth's bright crystal, shimmering out of sunlight Into the moon-dawn.
Closer cling, thou heart of amazed rapture, Cords of starlight fashioned about thee net-wise, Tendrils woven of gossamer twist about us! These be the binders!
Night winds whirl about the avenger city; Darkness rides on desolate miles of moor-land; Thou and I, disparted a little, part not Spirit from spirit.
Strange and sister songs in the middle ether Grow, divide; they hover about, above us. We, the song consummate of love, give music Back to the mortal.
Here, my love, a garden of spice and myrtle; Sunlight shakes the rivers of love with laughter; Here, my love, abide, in the amber ages, Lapped in the levin.
Linger, linger, light of the blessed moonrise! Full-orbed sweep immaculate through the midnight! Bend above, O sorrowful sister, kiss me Once and for ever!
Let the lake of thought be as still as darkmans* Brooding over magian pools of madness! Love, the sun, arise and abide above us, Mary Mavourneen.
* Night—an old English canting word.
XANTIPPE.
Sweet, do you scold? I had rather have you scold Than from another earn a million kisses. The tiger rapture on on your skin's Greek gold Is worth a million smiles of sunken cold And Arctic archangelic passion rolled From any other woman. Heaven misses The half of God's delight who doth not see Some lightning anger dart like love and strike Into the sacred heart its iterant glee Of scathing tortures worth Hell's agony To melt—ah, sweet, I know! in foam and free Lustre of love redoubled. Come to me! I will avenge that anger, like to like With gentle fires of smitten love, will burn Into your beauty with the athletic rush Of conquering godhead; and you cheek shall burn From red of wrath to shame's adorable blush, And so in tears and raptures mix the cup Of dreadful wine we are wont to drain and—well!— Needs but one glance to lift the liquor up, One angry grip to wake me, and to swell The anguish into rapture—come, to sup The liquid lava of the lake of Hell!
EILEEN.
The frosty fingers of the wind; the eyes Of the melancholy wind: the voice serene Of the love-moved wind: the exulting secrecies Of the subtle wind: lament, O harmonies Of the most musical wind! Eileen!
The peace of the nameless loch: the waiting heart Of the amorous loch: the lights unguessed, unseen, Of the midnight loch; the winter's sorrow apart Of the ice-bound loch: O majesty of art Of the most motionless loch! Eileen!
The gleam of the hills: the stature of the hills Facing the wind and the loch: the cold and clean Sculpture of the stalwart hills; the iron wills Of the inscrutable hills! O strength that stills The cry of the agonised hills! Eileen!
Come back, O thought, alike from burn and ben And sacred loch and rapture strong and keen Of the wind of the moor. A race of little men Lives with the little. The exalted ken Knows the synthetic soul. Eileen!
Close in the silence cling the patient eyes Of love: the soul accepts her time of teen, Awaits the answer. Midnight droops and dies, A floral hour; what dawn of love shall rise On a world of sorrow? Peace! Eileen!
Mazed in a Titan world of rock and snow? Horsed among the bearded Bedawin? Drowsed on a tropic river in the glow Of sunset? Whither? Who shall care or know, When one and all are this? Eileen! |