Poetry Explorer- Classic Contemporary Poetry, HERE IS MUSIC: FOR VINCENT KEYTE, by AUSTIN PHILIPS


Poetry Explorer

Classic and Contemporary Poetry

HERE IS MUSIC: FOR VINCENT KEYTE, by                    
First Line: A devon field. The glad, sweet scent of grass
Last Line: Of generous youth at play—white-clad—on english green.
Subject(s): Boys; Youth


A DEVON field. The glad, sweet scent of grass
Fresh-mown to shaven beauty. Sunken lanes
For hem and border: lanes whereon creak and pass
High-heaped, hay-laden, huge and horse-drawn wains.
Twin, thatched pavilions. Floating flag, where reigns,
Red on a milky background, whiskered beast,
Archaic emblem, legendary crest
Of Otter's otiose stream and idle strains.
Leftwards, St. Cyrès' larch-capp'd Hill (which hails
Combe Raleigh wood, by bluebells carpeted).
Aloof, tall Dumpton, lord of much-loved dales,
Sailor-sought landmark, fort with fir-crown'd head,
Smiles stately pleasure at the gracious scene
Of generous Youth at play—white-clad—on English green.

Forth from the rout, the roar
Of that long, crowded, broad,
Highway, that endless and arterial road
Which links vast London with the wished-for West,
Wanders a man in weariness, heart-sore,
Firm to find contact with the abhorrèd East,
But forced to make for-all-time-fateful stay
At halfway house, pale home of drab delay.
Hungry for solitude, of silence fain,
He seeks escape; scarce-conscious, saunters slow
Within a side road, nears a narrowing lane,
Sees sunlight there, below,
Shine on soft-singing stream
Whose sight, song, shimmer and gleam
Gladden his senses, greet him, signal, urge
Him onward, beckon, call
Him—faithful, willing thrall
Of Beauty—to abide,
Lie, linger, laze, beside
Lethè-like waters, dream away long hours,
Visit and view Earth's outer, utmost verge
On carpet of fair flow'rs.

Even as he goes, fresh sound
Strikes on his ear. Heart, soul
Leap sudden. Swift, volitionless, his whole
Being responds. Along that electric chain
Which wraps all life, long buried, fierce, profound
Instincts win free, flash orders to his brain.
He checks his course, essays a bank's sheer face,
Half conquers, hangs midway, contrives to enlace
Fingers in friendly osier-shoot, all strength
Of limb sets forth, lifts himself upward, fails
Again and yet again, until, at length,
One last, long effort hales
Him victor, and he sees
That at which memories,
Imperious and resistless, bade him aim,
Obedient to sweet call
Of bat impinged on ball,
(His own most passionate joy
In Youth, as man, as boy!)
Of cricket, bastard Art, whose peerless, sweet
Intoxication, great time-thieving game,
Brings man false fame and fleet.

Like some old charger, stirr'd
By bugle's breath, who scents
Powder, past wars, parades and tournaments,
Who sees men ride the road, looks on and yearns
To join their march—a fleeting minute spurr'd
Back to his happy heyday—riots, burns
With pristine fires, snorts, gazes, neighs delight,
Renews lost Youth at sound, at sense, at sight. ...
Even so, the high-perched harbourer on the crest
Of that tall hedge finds care, feels decades, fall
From off his shoulders, knows old hours invest
His spirit, wake, recall
Former successes, won
'Neath blazing summer sun,
Moments ineffable, delicious days,
Triumphs, disasters, joys,
Griefs, desperations, poise
Lost for a second's space,
Re-found, re-won a-pace. ...
All the down-dropping gamut, the ascending scale,
Which Art exacts from those who walk her ways,
Fixed, firm, to fight, prevail.

In hope and eagerness
He gazes; sequestrate,
Beholds fresh figure pass white-painted gate,
Walk towards the wicket, take appropriate stance,
Shape as for stroke, uneasy, spiritless,
Scratch a stray run with crude inelegance,
Scraping unrhythmically, somehow stop
Ten ugly minutes, then, bowled neck and crop,
Seek the Pavilion. He who watches, sees
Ill-taught, untrained successors demonstrate
Some worthless master's incapacities;
Contemptuous and irate,
(As those who know, as one
In high tradition
Trained, and alumnus of great School which gave
England Herself a school
Of batsmen which a whole
Wide Empire with delight
Once looked on) turns in flight
From such a piteous travesty and lack
Of rhythm ... then, cricket's aforetime slave,
Lingers, relents, looks back.

Thrice fortunate chance. For lo!
(Fidelity's reward!)
Forth on sweet-scented, gracious, close-shorn sward
Issues with easy, rhythmic, unforced pace
Athlete indubitable—in embryo
The Thing Itself—if ever care-free grace
Shone bright in youngling carriage, or foretold
Future achievement, cast in classic mould. ...
With eager eyes the watcher sees him stride
Crease-ward, take guard, give cautious glance around,
Face bowler, lift his bat, lean forward, glide
The ball to furthest bound
With wristy courtliness
And ease so effortless
That such accomplishment might even seem
Casual indifference,
Indolent negligence,
Save to true expert, swift
To sense such promise, sift
Bright gold from base, dull dross, to sight and see
Success to come, to recognise rare dream
Of infinite Artistry.

Such the first time I set
Sight upon you, and saw
(Despite of blemish, error, ignorance, flaw
Born of instruction so incompetent
That only passionate ardour, blood, tears, sweat,
Firmness, severity, encouragement
Knew to expel the evil, bring the good
To full fruition, urge to plenitude)
Potential greatness ... and, so seeing, stayed
The summer through ... thus staying, striving, found
Forgetfulness of self, stark griefs allay'd,
Medicament of wound
So deep that it had seemed
Immedicable ... redeemed
My strengths; refreshed, restored, renewed my soul,
Came to experience
Incomparable, intense
Joys, true paternity
Of spirit, stood feoffee
Of deep, unplum'b, unplumbable, fathomless,
Unknown, undream'd of, exquisite, heart-whole
And infinite Tenderness.

In your advance, success,
Fight forward, gain
Of artistry, I felt that old, sweet pain
Of my own boyhood's battle, found re-birth
Of bye-gone zest, renewed lost eagerness,
Daily discovered fresh and unknown worth
In Life's large web; learned he who helps a boy
Develop, walks in rich, vicarious joy. ...
Nay, warmed, inspired by Youth's intensity
Of effort, spent not, rather seemed to save
Such slender virtue as went out of me. ...
Thus garnished all I gave,
With great and ne'er-thought thrift,
Knew glad, uncounted gift
Of time and thought and self accumulate
Interest an hundred-fold,
With spiritual gold
Enrich me, dower, delight
My heart with fresh insight,
Bring me new knowledge, widen, help, increase
Outlook, exalt me, yet irradiate
My soul with strange, rare Peace.

My work seemed done. I went.
But not before I learned
That you, to whom my heart in secret yearned,
Both as to bodily and spiritual son,
Showed others heirship, hereditament
From him that helped you: yet a schoolboy, won
Place 'mid grown men—you, not yet seventeen!—
In Devon's side, on Home and alien green. ...
Learned, too—but later—that your future fate
Matched mine, long since. Heard how financial stress,
Cruel and ruthless, harsh, exacerbate,
All-powerful, pitiless,
Had period put, and end
To progress, dividend
To effort had denied, had come between
Yourself and Oxford, sent
You, faithful, diligent,
A schoolboy still, to teach
Cricket to children, reach
Despair and disillusion, Hope-impelled, essay
African shores, find Fortune adverse, lean,
So Homeward wend sad way.

Then Fortune's wheel reversed
Its restless round. You turned
To tender heart which, even as mine, had yearned
To-wards you at first sight. You wed, worked, gave
Your uttermost, taught school again, athirst
To prove your manhood, steadfast, strong to slave
While others idled, e'er of honour fain,
Harsh Fate's high conqueror, came next to gain
Your bounden birthright—academical
Distinction; always nobly discontent,
Hungry for self-expression, prodigal
Of force, (as prescient
Of Things-to-Be), felt Fate
Impel you to create;
Essayed Romance; inexpert, asked my aid.
As in old Devon hours
Found eager help, found pow'rs
Refreshed and quickened; sped
Forward; proud-spirited,
Climbed still-steep heights, sighted success—afar
But certain-seeming ... next knew Hope, Dream fade
Grown dust, hurled, whirled by War.

You being you, you flew
To serve and, serving, hid
Sad, secret weakness, such as should forbid
Your service; selfless, launched Life's barque once more
On Effort's boundless ocean, yet anew
Steered, drave it forward with resistless prore,
Made yourself marksman, full soon, firm of will,
Became skilled soldier ... yet stayed artist still.
Found yourself chosen, next, to train the élite
Of a whole Empire's high, heroic breed,
Taught at secreted, lake-side Scottish Seat
Men themselves born to lead,
Those who should soon command
Commandos with strong hand. ...
Then, issuing forth again, set foot a space
In France, defended fair
Calais, to make repair
Homeward 'mid bomb, blast, murk
And smoke of dread Dunkirk,
Rejoined your regiment,
Expert and Adjutant,
Won worth-while men's esteem, your Colonel's praise,
Saw swift promotion show you smiling face,
Forebode fresh task, brave ways.

Then the blow fell. Foul Fate
Brought that Black Hour which comes
Once at least in the life of each man, dooms
Him to despair, deep suffering, but comes most
In lives of those who vow, who dedicate
Firm hours to passionate effort, hold all lost
Unless they seek perfection, (never found,
But ceaseless to be sought!) propose, propound
Themselves, each day at Dawn, fresh difficulty,
See their horizons ruthlessly recede
After achievement, know new victory
Holds rank and hidden seed
Of Failure, so shun ease
And soul-destroying peace. ...
Thus was it, then, that you, inspired, impelled
To serve, who nobly made
Secret of what forbade
Service, who hid from all
Crescent, congenital
Weakness, beheld—aghast
And helpless—dreams extinguished, high hope quelled,
Pow'r to press onward past.

To war, to teach, to hear. ...
These things are no more yours,
But—with your will, your rich, rare spirit, force—
Be of large hope, keep courage, harbour Faith;
Passionate still, brave bludgeoning Fate and steer
Your being's barque adown predestined path,
Long since foreshadowed when I saw you first,
Schoolboy, fare forth, an-hunger'd and athirst
For honour and achievement, bring to bastard Art
Such grace and inborn artistry that I
Seemed to behold some Greek God's counterpart
Or, rather, to sight and see,
Sense and discover, deem
You son of secret dream. ...
Fight, then, once more; fare forward; find your true
Your hidden self, there mine;
Artist, seek anodyne
In Art; so best express
The essential man; fearless,
Unbeaten and unbeatable, meet, greet
Disaster, your old ally. Dare anew. ...
Draw victory from Defeat.

Gird up strong loins afresh.
Be sure, not faint, of soul.
Woman-wise, Fortune rather saves her scowl
For such as fear her, smiles on them that hack
Resistless road from out her flirt-flung mesh,
To flout and shame her steadfast. Spite her black
And bestial bludgeonings. Take heart, and fling
Yourself into firm task. From suffering
Filch inspiration. Thus make manifest
Hid strengths you harbour. Still undaunted, see
Escape, success in effort. Wring and wrest
Reward, fulfilment through adversity.
When faint of heart, recall
Courage by thought that all
True souls have toy'd with weakness, kept sad tryst
With dark and deep despair.
Homer grew sightless. Rare,
Proud Byron wept for shame
At twisted foot, while lame
Was good Sir Walter; deaf, Beethoven. Nay,
Did not harsh evening hour assail the Christ
Himself with doubt, dismay?

If it should chance that, ill
At ease in fresh essay,
You momentarily falter, lose awhile strange way,
Find your path fog-bound, ache for aid ... then think
On him who long since helped you to fulfil
Your youngling dreams; who, swift to help you, still
Stands ready now; who, old emeritus,
Sensed at first sight your latent genius,
Divined rare, ardent passion for the best,
High, noble thirst for self-perfection,
Thrilled to behold such burning, inborn zest,
Gazed as on spiritual son;
Who (though the boy—strong man
Become—needs guardian
No more, but rather stands to guard his own)
May not forget how you
Brought him authentic, true
Unequalled, exquisite gift,
The best Life holds to lift
Man's soul; who himself now hard-bit veteran,
Yearns towards you as once Athos, ageing, lone,
Yearn'd towards loved d'Artagnan.

A Devon field. The glad, sweet scent of grass
Fresh-mown to shaven beauty. Sunken lanes
For hem and border: lanes whereon creak and pass
High-heaped, hay-laden, huge and horse-drawn wains.
Twin, thatched pavilions. Floating flag, where reigns
Red on a milky background, whiskered beast,
Archaic emblem, legendary crest
Of Otter's otiose stream and idle strains.
Leftwards, St. Cyrès' larch-capp'd Hill (which hails
Combe Raleigh wood, by bluebells carpeted.)
Aloof, tall Dumpton, lord of much lov'd dales,
Sailor-sought landmark, fort with fir-crown'd head,
Smiles stately pleasure at the gracious scene
Of generous Youth at play—white-clad—on English green.





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