Philippa Powys

Novelist, poet and playwright

Poems

The Blackthorn Winter

'The only "real poet" in the Powys Family.'

- John Cowper Powys

Philippa Powys was the ninth of the Powys family's largest and most talented generation, of which John Cowper Powys was the first-born, and was herself a novelist, playwright and poet, the only 'real Poet' in the family, as he delighted in telling her – even when it had long become apparent that the bulk of her literary output would never see the light of day. In this, though, he was not insincere. He was not alone in detecting in his sister's work qualities to be admired, and he never ceased to encourage and advise, praising her for successes, consoling her for disappointments, and characteristically playing down his own achievements. He helped in the practical business of the correcting and typing of her manuscripts and in communicating with publishers, and her ultimate failure to achieve a popular profile or stature equivalent to those of her three literary brothers did not dampen his faith in her potential or alter the fact of her own achievements. Was it not rather the public, or the publishers, who had failed to appreciate her qualities?

In the year that saw the publication of The Blackthorn Winter, Philippa Powys’s main collection of poems, Driftwood, was also published, by E. Lahr in the Blue Moon Booklets series. This aptly-named volume of twenty-four poems was 'Dedicated to "Valentine.",' the poet Valentine Ackland who offered her encouragement with her writing.

In addition to the ordinary trade edition of Driftwood, a hundred numbered copies were printed on large paper and ten numbered and signed copies bound in white buckram.

Subsequently, three pamphlets were published, Poems (Sidmouth, 1932), Some Poems (Sidmouth, no date), and Four Poems (no place of publication or date).

In 1992, The Powys Society issued a collected edition of Philippa Powys’s poems, Driftwood and Other Poems, which gathered together all her published poems as well as eight previously unpublished poems and included a portrait of the poet by Gertrude Powys.

LOVED AND LOST

'Seagull!    Seagull!    Why so fast ?'

'O Child of Fate, I cannot stay.'

'Speak, O Seagull !    Speak to me

Flying there over high white cliffs.

'My heart is sore, my heart is torn,

Thy cries re-echo my broken soul.

Hover near and comfort me,

Who in thee findeth a soothing hope.

My love is dead, I wander far,

To find him whom I so much love.

My cries ring sharp like the moaning winds,

My tears are salt like thy own sea-waves.

I cannot find him, even though,

Tis only to see him from afar.

O Bird of Space !     Bring him to me,

Surely he will hear thy call.'

'Never, never will my cry break upon his listening ears,

Never, never will my wings brush awake those lids of sleep.

He is dead, no more to rise, lying

Where buttercups and daisies grow.'

'Stay, O Seagull, Stay with me;

Tell me how to pass these days

Reft of passion and of joy,

Starved of sunshine and of hope.'

'Hearken now, though not in life, you'll hear his voice

In the whirl of the wind; in the changing of clouds;

And in the blackness of night the foaming breakers shall

declare his spirit.

By day the sands shall mark his name,

And the sight of boats shall testify

That you knew him, and he knew you.'

'O Bird of Sky, it is not enough.

I want him, himself; in body, in life,

To walk these hills and hear the lark

And smell the scent of the golden gorse,

And you too say, he lies stiff-cold

Under clods of earth . . .

O !    God forbid !    O !    Miserable day !'

SONG OF THE WIND

Blessed is the wild rough weather,

Blessed is the whistle of the wind.

Blessed indeed is the wind that hath the breath of life:

Blessed is the Spirit that joins its voice to that of the wind;

Blest again is the Spirit that hears the voice and cannot reach it.

Blessed above all are they, for they suffer not alone but in

          sympathy.

Blow, blow thou harder, thou inspirer of wishes,

Blow, O, Blessed Friend that consoles,

Blow thou on, until unspoken wishes are scattered as a cloud,

Blow, till more pass on, ere they shall drop or not as thy force

increases:

Blow, blow until they shall fall on some unwatered field.

Blow thou on, thou wind, Inhabitant of heaven and earth.

Thou that canst appease the suffering and yet augment:

Blessed still art thou, thou unembodied spirit.

Blow thou Consoler of prisoners:

Blow thou envy of freedom,

Blow that the bitterness of the thoughts that are towered within,

May be shattered.

Then shall the fragments be covered with the weeds of the earth,

The bramble shall twine around and bear fruit;

The gorse shall bloom and become the golden symbol of

friendship;

The nettle shall shelter the home of the brown hedge-sparrow.

Blow, blow thou great Consoler.

Rise and curse the fate which runs through this sad and battered

earth.

Blow, blow and stir the emotions deeper till men gather the truth

and make bold in thought.

Blow thou over the wilderness, then shall we see beyond; Clear thou the mists, so that sight may pierce the ether above.

Blessed indeed art thou,O Wind !

Scatterer of the wild desires;

Appeaser of the desperate;

Rousing the seas to anger, so that man's great brain is foiled

While in thy might, joined with that of the waves, men become

as autumn leaves.

Play on them, play on them faster,

Put fear about them, till they fall before thee,

O ! thou Great Omnipotent Power.

Winds of the fells and the sea, join and become one, so

that man may tremble again.

Thou art the boon of my Spirit, the healing of my broken sores

Thou Confessor !    How shall I tell ?

I am a prodigal: with wishes that are intensified, but must be kept

hidden;

Whirl them further from me, O, Blessed Deliverer !

Toss them above me, disperse the belt of thought which follows. Bitter are the clouds of remembrance.

Away with the despairable droppings of the rain,

Hurl them away as thou wouldst that craft upon the water,

Race behind them that they do not take dominion over me.

Blow, blow for ever, O, Blessed Messenger of Heaven !

Blessed is the cry of the wind that fore-runs the rushing gales.

Copyright © The Estate of Philippa Powys 2008

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2008