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Acolyte, vol 1, issue 3, whole 3, Spring 1943

Page 6

THE MIME OF SLEEP
by Clark Ashton Smith
-oOo-
My dreams are like some strange, disordered mime:
A plot that pandemonium shadows feign
Ravels half-told; and dead loves live again
In settings of distorted place and time:
A broken drama, puerile or sublime
Whose riddled meaning I must guess in vain;
A masque, whose grey grotesques of mirth and pain
Move randomly through an occulted clime.

But though they pass, and slumber blot them all,
Your beauty's burning shade more slowly dims--
Where, dancing like Salome, you let fall,
In splendid sequence under a sad sky,
The seven veils of fantasy that I
Have wound upon your young, delightful limbs.

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POETRY AND THE ARTISTIC IDEAL. (concluded)
incidentally finds himself creating real beauty. We may describe the successful aesthete in a very free paraphrase of Waller---
"He sought content, and filled his arms with bays."
Certainly, all true poetry comes out of experience and emotion; for we cannot have an authentic urge for expression unless we have really lived or felt what we want to say. This does not mean that every poem must describe some specific objective incident in our history, but merely that it must adhere to territory with which we are sufficiently familiar to harbour really profound and poignant feelings concerning it.

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CLAIMED
by Virginia Anderson
-oOo-
.....And one who held his own desired to keep
The strange archaic cask where it belonges.
But he who held it meant to hoard; and reap
The sea's wild rage before he let it go.

So came the tides, where tides do not belong.
And others gave white horses, so the sea,
Though vexed, might know they did not mean the wrong
Of keeping him from what by rights was his.

And three against him; then the three were two,
The fair-haired maiden and the man of greed....
The dead men cast her from him, and he knew
That he must face the weath of HIM alone!
(Dedicated to Francis Stevens by Nanek)

--6--

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THE MIME OF SLEEP by Clark Ashton Smith -oOo- My dreams are like some strange, disordered mime: A plot that pandemonium shadows feign Ravels half-told; and dead loves live again In settings of distorted place and time: A broken drama, puerile or sublime Whose riddled meaning I must guess in vain; A masque, whose grey grotesques of mirth and pain Move randomly through an occulted clime. But though they pass, and slumber blot them all, Your beauty's burning shade more slowly dims-- Where, dancing like Salome, you let fall, In splendid sequence under a sad sky, The seven veils of fantasy that I Have wound upon your young, delightful limbs. *************************************************************************** POETRY AND THE ARTISTIC IDEAL. (concluded) incidentally finds himself creating real beauty. We may describe the successful aesthete in a very free paraphrase of Waller--- "He sought content, and filled his arms with bays." Certainly, all true poetry comes out of experience and emotion; for we cannot have an authentic urge for expression unless we have really lived or felt what we want to say. This does not mean that every poem must describe some specific objective incident in our history, but merely that it must adhere to territory with which we are sufficiently familiar to harbour really profound and poignant feelings concerning it. *************************************************************************** CLAIMED by Virginia Anderson -oOo- .....And one who held his own desired to keep The strange archaic cask where it belonges. But he who held it meant to hoard; and reap The sea's wild rage before he let it go. So came the tides, where tides do not belong. And others gave white horses, so the sea, Though vexed, might know they did not mean the wrong Of keeping him from what by rights was his. And three against him; then the three were two, The fair-haired maiden and the man of greed.... The dead men cast her from him, and he knew That he must face the weath of HIM alone! (Dedicated to Francis Stevens by Nanek) --6--