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Title: I Run with the Fox

Author: Mona Gould

Release date: November 15, 2010 [eBook #34329]

Language: English

*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK I RUN WITH THE FOX ***

Copyright (C) 1946 by the Estate of Mona Gould.

I Run With the Fox

By

Mona Gould

Toronto

The Macmillan Company

Of Canada Limited

1946

Copyright, Canada, 1946

by

The Macmillan Company of Canada Limited

All rights reserved - no part of this book may be reproduced in any form without permission in writing from the publisher, except by a reviewer who wishes to quote brief passages in connection with a review written for inclusion in a magazine or newspaper.

Printed in Canada by

Le Soleil Limitee, Quebec.

Frontespiece:

For "Mook"

(Lt.-Col. Howard McTavish, Royal Canadian

Engineers, killed in action, Dieppe, 1942)

In proud and loving remembrance

This was my brother

At Dieppe,

Quietly a hero

Who gave his life

Like a gift,

Withholding nothing.

His youth… his Love…

His enjoyment of being alive…

His future, like a book

With half the pages still uncut —

This was my brother

At Dieppe —

The one who built me a doll house

When I was seven,

Complete to the last small picture frame,

Nothing forgotten.

He was awfully good at fixing things,

At stepping into the breach when he was needed.

That's what he did at Dieppe;

He was needed.

And even death must have been a little shamed

At has eagerness.

Mona Gould

Acknowledgement:

Acknowledgment is made to Saturday Night, Gossip, Chatelaine, Canadian Poetry Magazine, Canadian Home Journal and The Montrealer, in whose pages many of these poems have appeared.

Contents

I Run With the Fox

Memory Sharp

Gift Shop Window

Sire

Communion

Loud Silence

He Will Not Go Unremembered

Bagpipes Skirl in Heaven

How'd Ya Do!

Big Day

Prayer, In a Hospital

So Fair a Season

Spring Comes to a Small Town

For a Brown Dog

Right out of Pickwick

Man is a Lonely One

This Bitter Brew

It Was Tall in the Forest

Child … Waiting in a Drawing Room

Stars and the Dead

The Old Lady and the Cat

This Green

Weather-Vane

Noel

Immortality

Release

I Run With the Fox

Better to be proud and hunted

Than to ride with the Pink Coats.

Better than the smell of warm blood after a quick kill, Bitter and bright the scent of hidden fern.

Though the heart fail in the panting side

And the eye be clouded with straining

after the deep copse

Still is there thrill in flight —

Soft are oak leaves under the swift feet.

Sweet are the distant notes of the hunter's horn

And the hounds' baying,

Sweet to the trembling ears of the hidden

and hunted.

I run with the fox!

Memory Sharp

It has come to this… my darling…

With the years gone over,

With the truth acknowledged

You are not coming back.

It is entering a room

Where the curtains are drawn,

Where dust lies heavy

On the table top.

Sudden — your name — scrawled in the gloom —

And the mouth gone dry,

And the heart stopped!

Gift Shop Window

Apple Annie, ancient and weather-beaten

Her amazing garments huddled about her,

Bent almost double to peer in the window —

She stood on the one foot… and then on the other

And nodded her head like a great dark crow.

Her old lips moved in some mumbo-jumbo

But what she said was her own dark secret.

The wine-glasses winked in their pewter holders,

A bewildering array of costume jewellery

Of filigreed ivory and cornflower crystal

Was spread like the spoils of a pirate frigate

For Apple Annie's remote appraisal.

Some place, far back in the mind's recess

The hunger for Beauty stirred in sleep.

A little smile, like a secret fragment

Of dimly-remembered and lost delight

Moved, like the stir of a small frail fan

On a face that was wrinkled and dim with age.

With a hesitant gesture, desire engendered,

Her old hands fluttered against the pane

Twisted and gnarled… and pitifully empty…

Fluttered … and moved … and were still again!

Sire

My mother was a lady

With hair like silk

And eyes like gentians

And a skin like milk.

But my father loved laughter

And the flowing bowl —

And his eyes were dark mischief —

"Rest his soul!"

My mother often stopped me

From having fun

With the echo of her proper

"It isn't done!"

But I'd feel my father's hand

As he'd rough my hair

Saying "black… and rebellious.

We're a bold, bad pair!"'

And now I'm woman grown

With a son - ah me!

Who am I to tell him

What the "score" should be!

Communion

The rain falls down silverly

On the dark night.

Oh, but the air is soft to touch

And your face white.

This is for remembering,

For putting away in the mind's pocket

Like a shell - or a treasured stone, found

at the beach—

This touch - this kiss - this heart turning

toward heart —

This is for remembering

When you are beyond reach.

Words, at best, are like thistledown.

Let us be quiet, then.

Give me your hand!

You are my friend, and my love till the

world ends —

You understand!

Loud Silence

This is loud silence,

This bewildering space

Untenanted by you.

It has the ugly face

Of loneliness!

Hush… foolish heart …

You have been here before —

This is your blood

That rusts upon the door!

He Will Not Go Unremembered

(For Sir Charles G. D. Roberts)

Into fire, and air,

And finally soft and subtle ash

This clay

In which bright Beauty burned,

Became articulate

And lived a little while.

He will not go unremembered.

Small boys,

Belly-flat on floor

Will pad with him

Down wooded ways

Where creatures of the forest

Are realer than the room

And its four quite solid walls.

Young girls

Will pore with shining eyes

Over verse that sings

Of life… and beauty.

He will not go unremembered

Who served his Muse

With faithful plying pen.

This, his bright spark of lovely immortality

Struck from the cycle of his life and work…

He will not go unremembered!

Bagpipes Skirl in Heaven

Ah … not irreverent this…

For I am very sure

The bagpipes skirl in Heaven!

You see … 'twould not be Heaven … for him …

Without his native music —

Dear to his heart…

Called up at will,

Shrill … and sweet

Defiant as all "get out" …

Remembered past death!

And angels …

Yes, even angels

Must smile to see him marching by

Brave in his kilt …

His head thrown back

His "Plaidie" streaming in the wind.

Who could be sad for one so young and fair,

Immortal as a god, who gave his life

With never a backward glance?

Ah.. . not irreverent this,

When bagpipes skirl in Heaven!

Howd'Ya Do!

When we were very small children

In kindergarten

We used to play a game.

It was called "Howd'ya do, my Partner".

And you bowed, each to the other,

And clasped hands,

And solemnly went round in a circle

Which ended with a triumphant, rollicking skip!

It's the strangest thing —

Looking back from so many years

I can still remember distinctly

That the only little boy I'd skip with

Had eyes exactly like yours!

I can remember stamping my foot

And being unspeakably difficult

When the teacher tried to persuade me

That another little boy would do.

That's one of the most important features

Of that particular game —

Another little boy won't do!

Big Bay

This is fall

So I moust remember Big Bay

And the nets drying on the dock

And the birches stripped for winter

And wine in the sun!

There were scarlet berries

Maybe they were bittersweet,

And all the ferns

Were tobacco-coloured.

Some places you long for

With a physical longing.

It is like that with Big Bay,

Now… in October!

Prayer, In a Hospital

Dear God … let him play games

For a little while, yet!

Let his hands curve to a hockey stick

And the thrust of a canoe paddle.

Let him dive like a young arrow

Into clean water.

But, dear God

Let him play games! …

I have been to a Military Hospital.

I have talked to Mike …

Mike isn't much older.

His two boots hang at the foot of his bed.

Two carefully "dubbined" boots.

But Mike doesn't need two boots.

He just had a leg taken off.

He was cut down at Dieppe.

He was fourteen months in prison camp in

Germany.

"O, yes … they looked after us good enough —

But they had to tend their own wounded, first…

And there were so damn many of us!"

I talked to John,

After I got over the first shock.

John has both arms off… well above the elbow.

They call him "Arms" in the hospital ward.

It's sort of a grim… institutional joke.

John has an eye out, too —

The new glass one doesn't match his own eye.

"Are you married… or single… John?"

I managed.

"Single," he said … "Oh yes, … single."

He said it, thankfully,

Like a l-o-n-g sigh —

Like the sigh a child gives

Who has cried himself to sleep.

A hand grenade exploded in John's two hands.

It was the last thing he'll ever hold - in his

two hands!

And then there was Fred.

Fred got his at Sicily.

He'd been training for three and one half years

And he was in on the Big Push… three weeks!

Sure… it was shrapnel.

Took an eye out… and gave him a bum leg.

He had a picture of his English bride…

"Coming out to Canada, by God!

Next month — if they'll let her.

Pretty good-looking guy

Wasn't I… in the wedding picture?"

You're doggone right!

But it made a fellow so damn mad!

Three and one half years' training

To "get into it" — for three weeks.

And then … hospitals …

One after the other …

For God-knows-how-long.

It made a guy so damn mad!

Mac hasn't any arms, now, either.

"How did he blow his nose?" —

Well … he could laugh at that feeble crack,

And even give it serious consideration.

"By Gosh! —- I don't think I've had a cold

Since I got `knocked off' in Italy."

Mac is married.

He'd even had some leave

Out of "this here" hospital.

Getting ready for artificial arms, now.

Has to "stay put" for a while, yet …

Oh, it takes quite a while,

This business of making a man

Makeshift-whole, again!

(Wonderful how a guy can pick up a book

in his teeth —

Smoke a cigarette, even — with a little help!)

Further down the line there's a chap

with no nose.

And a very young, fair-haired boy

So badly burned

That you couldn't identify a feature

But his bright blue eyes.

Bright … and hard … and sharp…

On the look-out for pity.

(Don't let your lips quiver

In front of the young, fair-haired boy.

Don't look at him with tears in your eyes —

Can't you see how he feels?)

Going out, there are wheelchairs —

Doors opening on to rooms

Where wisps of men like grey shadows

Lie, curled up against their pillows.

The hospital smell clings to your skin,

To your palate.

You breathe it… taste it…

Stifle, in it!

Dear God! Let him play games

For a little while, yet!

Let him laugh out loud

And run like a young god

In the path of the sun.

I have been to a Military Hospital

And I know there is nothing we can give

To Mike and John, and Freddie and Mac

That will make up for their Gethsemane.

There is nothing!

Glass eyes are not enough!

Artificial limbs are not a fair exchange…

Dear God… let him play games

For a little while, yet!

So Fair a Season

How could he tell them

There was a sleek small vixen

With a silken pelt

Who held his heart in thrall?

How could he tell them when that call

Came down the wind

His bones were thinn'd

With longing,

And he turned his back

On the pack?

Even he couldn't tell the strange enchanted reason Why fall should suddenly be so fair a season!

Spring Comes to a Small Town

The pool players

That all winter long have lingered lazily

over the green-topped tables

Half-somnolent in the cloud of cigarette smoke,

Are seen lounging at precarious angles

Against the nearest tobacconist's windows.

Teen-age boys and girls link arms, and

Roller-skate on the paved streets,

Shoulders touching; and laughter like

a living thing between them.

Later, in the summer they will dance on Saturday evenings

Under gaudy Chinese lanterns.

And the prophecy of spring will be fulfilled.

A short stout lady bustles off her doorstep

Broom in hand

To do a little sweeping;

Her knitted suit fits closely

Like the sleek, green plumage of a plump

soft bird.

Babies… babies — everywhere

Bouncing busily in their prams —

Eyes like bits of rain-washed sky…

And everyone exclaiming as they ride past

"Isn't he a darling!"

Old, old gentlemen taking little walks,

Their canes tapping the sidewalk

More and more confidently.

You can see how they feel about the sun,

It's a downright comfort!

Everything looks suddenly clean and shining.

The lettuce in the fruit-shop window

has a fresh-cut look

Like an accidental bouquet;

It suddenly becomes imperative to

speak to someone

And it doesn't matter in the least

If a perfect stranger goes white with surprise

When you tell them "It's a lovely day!"…

In no uncertain terms.

Spring comes to a small town

In rather a special sort of way!

After all, she can't add an awful lot to

Fifth Avenue,

But there's room for just her kind of glamour

On Main Street!

For a Brown Dog

And the rusted spade turned in the dark earth

And we committed his body to the dust —

His little brown dog's body

That three minutes before

Had jumped for joy

And emitted joyous barks.

(But you couldn't go out and shoot the motorist

Who had run over him…

Especially when it was a woman

Who had shed appropriate tears!)

Only, you could burn inside with a fierce flame

Because he wouldn't come running to you

Any more

With a grin on his face

And his funny little plume of a tail

Frantic with love!

The rusted spade turned in the dark earth

And something of you went into the ground

With the little brown dog's body!

Right out of Pickwick

Right out of Pickwick! You would have said:

His quaint neat figure

Rotund, but tapered.

His trousers looked to be always peg-top,

Narrowing down to his shining foot gear.

His woollen vests were from far-famed Bond Street,

Checked, and horsey and dear to his heart.

You might have thought him a figure for laughter;

You might have laughed and said "Humpty Dumpty!"

If you hadn't known him, and hadn't loved him

He was Uncle Reg to the young and the old —

He was Uncle Reg and his heart was gold…

He'd been a Banker for many years

And then he'd retired, to the laughter and tears

Of nursing his mother… delicate… old…

But precious to him. She thought him a bold

Brave knight, who chose to stay at her side.

You hardly saw him, when she first died!

When Kathie, his niece, married the mayor —

A tall young Scotsman with sandy hair —

In his high silk hat, that sat "just so",

Old Uncle Reg was a regular Beau.

His cravat was faultess, his dignity sweet…

From his topper top, to his gleaming feet! …

On birthdays, in fine Spencerian hand

A letter would come. The words were grand

And the style heroic. In dark green ink

Uncle Reg would say, "I think

You the fairest lady this side of the sea

Who wears her birthdays with gaiety.

You have my wishes for scores and scores."

And the letters were signed "Admiringly, Yours."

There'd come a bottle of fine liqueur

At Christmas. A gift was always the best

With a label. He thought it a very test

Of friendship. You thought a person was dear and fine

So you gave him your choicest, rarest wine!

He was at his best when the lights were high

And laughter gleamed in the dancer's eye;

He never would ask for your hand outright,

But would seek your partner, and there in sight

Would ask permission to squire you round

In a waltz; he was light as a blowing feather!

His conversation was always whether

The party was fun for you. Compliments came to his lips more swift

Than the dancing music's whirling lift.

He was no relation to us, by blood…

He was "Uncle" because of the great warm flood

Of affection. We adopted him right from the time we met…

And he's Uncle Reg in our memory yet.

And there's never a birthday or Christmas night

When the candles burn high and the eyes are bright

But a gentle whimsical courtly ghost

Sits at our table. We miss him most

Anniversary times!

"Right out of Pickwick," you would have said,

If you'd seen hire strolling along the street,

His neat small figure against the sky.

But Uncle Reg was a symbol, too

Of the way the Quality used to do

What was expected. He knew the rules

And he carried them out, to the last fine letter.

Somewhere I think his dear small ghost

Treads a gay measure … murmuring, "Most

Sweet gracious lady …" to some slim shade

Who finds him a gallant entrancing Blade!

Man is a Lonely One

Man is a lonely one.

How close he huddles to his hearth and house,

Walks quiet as a mouse

Down echoing streets… Gathers about him neighbours,

Friends,

Puts up with being bored

While endless, pointless stories

Roll from indifferent lips.

He does not like to wake

In an empty house.

His spouse is his retreat from single-ness,

His friendly bosom that will take him in

And quiet his awareness,

Lull him to comfort and insentient peace;

Build tender walls about his shivering self;

Gather within the crescent of her arms

The core of his alarms.

Man is a lonely one.

He builds himself a shelter from the night,

Turns himself inward where the lamplight falls,

Takes comfort in the stoutness of four walls.

Only when he strides out to face a gun

Suddenly… strickenly, bravely

He is one!

War breaks his shell, and spews him forth alone

Into a world most savagely his own!

This Bitter Brew

This is a bitter brew

Mixed with my own hand,

I recall how the herbs grew

Flowering over the land.

How the wind blew sweet

And your eyes held the sun,

And this need grew in my heart

That will never be quite done.

A cloud furled like midnight

Covered the rising sea

And slipt like a raven shadow

Bitterly over me.

You knew the sudden knowledge

That filled my heart with fear

And stood against the darkness

As long as you were here!

It Was Tall in the Forest

(Browning Island, Muskoka)

It was tall in the forest

This morning…

The trees were on tiptoe

With their shoulders hunched,

And every daisy lifted its frill

Skyward.

Down the lane between the trees

I was a sudden giant!

"Ho!" I said to a tree toad

Who crossed my path,

"Out of the way… Small Fry…

The world is tall to-day

And walking on long legs!

Ho!" I said to the Small Flat One,

"Out of the way!"

Child … Waiting in a Drawing-Room

Her room reminded me

Of a rich, dark fruit-cake.

There was a "plum-iness" about it…

A claret sort of aura.

Nervous as a witch

On a sea of red carpet

I sat on the edge

Of a high-backed chair,

Longing to hide behind the grave grey portieres

Or run like a rabbit

From her step on the stair!

Stars and the Dead

Stars and the dead

Are faithful;

These, you may set your clock by;

Promise to meet at such-and-such a time,

And such a place —

The living can keep face

With no such constancy.

Look on this thing

With disenchanted eyes —

Do not expect the living

In such wise!

The Old Lady and the Cat!

At the very top storey the old lady sat

Telling her love to a smoky grey cat.

In a high, dark, old house like a tenement place.

There were twinkles of merriment touching her face.

With a few bits of bread for the pigeons to eat

She sat in her eyrie above the dark street;

And the language she spoke to the cat and the birds

Was half made of poetry, half made of words.

She was something remembered from tales you'd been told

Of witchcraft and crones when you weren't very old.

From beneath those high eaves in the middle of town

A page from your childhood looked piquantly down!

This Green

This is the newest green

As if an unseen Leprechaun

Rushing across the lawn

Had tipped his hand!

Every tree

Is filigree.

There is a brush of colour

In the hedges.

The Scillas and the tulip spears

Conspire against you.

Tenderness runs like bright fire

Along the evening.

Turn quickly, if this thing can get you down…

This green… this little love, that wraps the town!

Weather-Vane

When I was small

And it would rain

Against the widest window-pane

I'd press my face and taste despair —

And streaked with woe I'd cry

"Unfair!"

Useless to say

The clouds would pass

The lovely rain would green the grass,

Would drench the lilacs,

Wash the world.

My heart was small and tense

And curl'd

Tight as a snail…

Only the smell of sun on clover

Could make me glad the rain was over,

Could set me free to walk enchanted

The fresh, bright lanes;

Geared like a weather-vane am I

By what goes on in yonder sky!

Noel

Christmas to a little girl

When she is small,

Means a toy tea-set

Or a beautiful doll,

Or a little grey muff

With a matching fur

Beautiful beyond words

These… to her!

Christmas to a woman grown

Is different again.

It's all tangled crazily

With mistletoe and men,

With stardust and flowers

And tunes for dancing feet,

And packets out of jewellers'

Marked "My sweet!"

But best of all, later on…

Best of all three…

It's children's eyes by candlelight

Around the tree!

Immortal

We may be now a sphere apart

And yet I find you in my heart

As warm and live, as once you were.

A little stir, like candle flame

Still touches me.

Your very name

Can call you up to quicken me

To trembling silence.

You may be

To all intents and purposes

As far away as yon bright star

That pricks the midnight. Very far

A love can be… and yet… and yet…

There is no way I may forget

Your essence. The "you"

That walked my nights and days

I carry with me, deep inside,

As much a part of me as eyes

Or hands or lips — or sudden laughter!

How sweet to know there is no death,

Not in the heart, that is…

A breath

Of shaken longing and you come

To company me.

And I am dumb

With this bright knowledge

Certain … sure…

This then is deathless —

Does endure!

Release

The bird in my breast

That long had lain

Ruffled of feather,

Drenched with rain,

Rises to fly.

You've set him free

To sing himself

Right out of me!

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