Marjorie L.C. Pickthall

This author I found in one of my favorite bookstores called "Hemmingway's" (Abbotsford, BC). They had just expanded their inventory, and while I was in in area I couldn't pass up the opportunity to survey their collection. They had a much bigger poetry section, and in it I found this fresh breath of life: Little Songs: A Book of Poems. Marjorie L. C. Pickthall (1883-1922) is a Canadian poetess and a somewhat esteemed writer (you may have heard of/read her book The Wood Carver's Wife). All in all there is very little to be said of her as a poet by literature professors, Wikipedia and other review sources (found on the internet). I find it sad that her sweet natured tone and fanciful spirit earned her little regard as a poet. Some compared her style as similar to W. B. Yeats and Ezra Pound in her use of allusion, but only to earn her the title of "Pickthall the Obscure". There is one review that I think rings particularly apt: "...dwelling in the realm of pure beauty and singing with perfect naturalness..." (1913 John Garvin of Canadian Poets). She is a pure romantic, I confess that is why I like her, that is my style of poetry also.

But enough author flattery, on to the poetry!

Daisy Time

See the grass is full of stars,

Fallen in their brightness;

Hearts they have of shining gold,

Rays of shining whiteness.

Buttercups have honeyed hearts,

Bees they love the clover,

But I love the daisies' dance

All the meadow over.

Blow, O blow, you happy winds, 

Singing summer's praises,

Up the field and down the field

A-dancing with the daisies.

A simple poem of childlike glee, brings me into the pleasure of summer breezes and rolling meadows. Perhaps I am easily pleased, I'm sure that I am, but I think there is nothing wrong with simplicity. I simple joys are so often taken for granted.

November

It is the time of vapours salt and chill,

And hoar-frost whitening all the fallen leaves,

No gleam there is of golden mellowing sheaves,

No south-bound bird-folk whistle high and shrill.

For now by barren banks the river grieves

Brown'd with dead water-stems and flowers, and still

The sad wind-voices sob about the eaves,

And far, faint echoes call upon the hill.

O sterne Novemeber, in thy hodden gray,

I see thee sitting by yon tree, which shows

But one red berry to the unruffled pond.

Westward in deepening glory dies the day,

And the lights with tenderer gleams the withered rose,

And stalks of earlier summer reared beyond.

Pickthall may be no Yeats (and nor am I for that matter) but she prettily twitters out easy to read and easy to love poems about our beautiful Canadian landscape.

In Elfin Land

In elfin seas the rocks are drest

With watery blossoms long and bright,

And unknown countries chain the sight

Within dim mysterious West.

On tranquil waves the seabirds rest,

And on the shore the cedar trees

Throw gloom upon the water's breast,

In elfin seas.

In elfin skies the clouds are gray,

And strung forever o'er the blue

Like fine spun mist, and large and few

The stars shine always night and day,

And there the Milky Way

Athwart them like a vapour lies,

From hill to hill across the bay,

In elfin skies.

In elfin meads dark figures creep

From poplar trees across the grass,

And idle shadows dawn and pass

Within the leafage rank and deep.

And poppy flow'rs hand half asleep,

And dewdrops cling like silver beads

To ripening corn no man shall reap,

On elfin meads.

In Elfin Land the hours slow,

And softly each declining day

In golden splendour fades away

With star-enlightened afterglow.

And gently all the rivers flow

By rushes tall and silver sand

And waxen blooms that only grow 

In Elfin Land.

When I read this one I reminisced pouring over fairy tales. Not just as a child, but more importantly, reading them as an adult for the first time. The heightened understanding, widened mind, and deepened passion for fairy tales. The mystical world became ever more endeared to me, than it was a child. All things beautiful are found there, as in this poem. There even "hours slow" that nothing be made harsh, and all is gauzed and "silver...In Elfin Land."

Yes I like this underadmired Canadian poetess, and I hope you like her too.