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THE
PIERRETTE POEMS
beautiful weeping wail for you - all the Pierrette ones are yours -
Hyde to Gwen Hawthorn, letter containing ms of 'Friend' (DC Coll)
In Robin Hyde's fair copy manuscript books 1927-28 are a number of poems
addressed to or concerning the flirtatious figure of Pierrette. Most (but not
all) of them also appear in a book of handwritten poems which Hyde presented
to her friend Gwen Hawthorn at Christmas 1926. Some were revised and published
in the Auckland Star, the Sydney Bulletin, the Christchurch Sun
and Victoria University College's The Spike. One, 'Rain,' was reprised in Persephone
in Winter (1937).
The texts given are from the first-named source in the list at the end of
each poem. The commonest source of the Pierrette group is the Little Saint
Christopher ms book (St C), which collects Hyde's poems to late 1927.
Chanson
When I was young and very wise
The world was just a place of roses,
Singing viols and drifting scents,
Dream-folk walking in garden closes;
Love, and all that follows after,
Was a thing for children's laughter
Thing of kisses and shining eyes,
When I was young and very wise!
Gay youth goes singing past and yet,
Though shadows darken my summer skies
And roses wither, shall I forget
Things I dreamed about, young and wise?
Love's mine for the taking, and silver stars
Shine down on me through my prison bars
For dreamers dwell in a world apart,
With empty hands and the stars in their heart.
St C/2; Xmas 26/8
Published in Akld Star according to RH note in St C.
Jeunesse
Listen, Pierrette. (Ah, how the white moon gleams,
As silver-footed o'er the pines she goes!
When I was young, Pierrette, I loved a Rose.
The rose was Life: the petals were my dreams.
Crimson-dark glowed the petals. Well I knew
Their guarded heart of gold was queenly fair
Somewhere, through small cold leaves, the dawn-wind blew
The petals fell. No heart of gold was there . . .
Little Pierrette, I laugh, and kiss your hair.
So warm your lips . . . when I was young and wise
I loved the cold maid who goes wandering
Lonely and lost along cloud-purple skies.
I found a moonglade, where clear waters sing
To dark, dream-haunted trees. And there, Pierrette,
I waited, kneeling, boy's heart all aflame
To kiss the little crystal foot she'd set
On starlight-silvered grass. She never came . . .
Child, but your soft lips make me half forget!
St C/5; Xmas 26/1; AU 19; ATL 280-09/40
Rain
Rain-murmurings; the wind whines and snuffles, wet
As a poor dog whose lord has ceased to care
For faithful things like dogs. And you, Pierrette,
With little firelit face and firegold hair
Curled like a kitten in an easy chair
Who purrs for stroking. Velvet soft and yet,
Who knows, behind your yellow eyes, what brain
May serve you? Hark! The little whine of rain.
Rose-red azaleas around you bend --
Soft from your lamp the rose-red shadows fall
See, golden eyes, how rose and golden blend,
As panther firelight leaps along the wall!
Outside, the small wind shakes a dripping coat,
Stifling a little whimper in its throat.
St C/7; Ex 3/5; AU 39, 70; ATL 290-09/44
Bulletin 26 May 1927; Persephone
To A Lady
Rose-red azaleas around you stand
In many jars. I think you never heard
A story, cried by some wild storm-tossed bird,
How golden women, in another land,
From all their trees seek out one moon-pale spray
Looking at it, men dream their lives away.
St C/10; Ex 3/21; AU 110; ATL 280-09/36
Chch Sun 16 Sept 1927
Pierrette
Winds of the twilight, lithe and sweet,
Stir the pine-needles 'neath our feet
Here where starshine and shadow meet.
Scent of bluegum-leaves, dusk-dew-wet,
Seems to cling in your hair, Pierrette
Theme enough for my chansonette.
Dreams fly past me on soft grey wings,
Ghost-hands pluck at my viol-strings,
Whispering secret, sorrowful things.
Winds in the dark, a-roving free,
Storm and shine of the changing sea
Cry for voice in the heart of me.
But somehow they change on my lips, Pierrette,
To light little songs of vague regret
Tunes to whistle and swift forget,
Of starshine lighting the way to a kiss,
Moonglades darkened for lovers' bliss,
Warm arms clinging no more than this
Give me your bold lips, crimson-sweet
Wild red poppies among the wheat
Weeds to trample 'neath godly feet.
What if the Jester bids me dream
Of silver star-pale lilies agleam
Floating dim on a lonely stream?
Cold white lilies, with dawn dew wet
Hearts of gold 'mid pearl-petals set
Such flowers bloom not in the world, Pierrette.
. . . . . . . . . . . .
Give me your soft lips, chιrisette,
Scarlet thread of my chansonette
Far too sweet to have drained regret
Wiser than Solomon's, gay Pierrette!
St C/11; Xmas 26/9; AU 20.1-2; ATL 280-09/38
Bulletin 29 Jan 1925
Friend
It is strange that there should be
In this darkness that encloses
Rainbow atoms that were me
The dim scent of yellow roses.
Hands that I have prayed to rest
On hot brow and tired breast,
Your small hands are heavy now
But I feel across my brow
Petals drift . . . . with such, I know,
You were crowned so long ago!
You were very gay, Pierrette,
Crystal-hard, your wise world knows
Yet my face is strangely wet
Dewfall from a yellow rose.
St C/13; ATL 280-09/12 as 'The Dying Pierrot'; another ms in letter to Gwen
Hawthorn in DC Coll. Following transcription of the poem: 'Auf wiedersehen,
Nenufar- / Iris / P.S I'm coming - in six weeks. Then I shall quietly
(or perhaps, even, noisily, die. See you soon - please, pretty creature.'
Chch Sun 30 Sept 1927 as 'The Dying Pierrot,'
Dedication For a Book
Suddenly, after rain, a tui sings,
His song a-telling of green-gloomy caves
Serpent-lithe shadows, little yellow waves
That wake the reeds with frosty whisperings
I make you gift of unattainιd things.
I can remember childhood's haunted dells
And rainbow-dusted butterflies, that fled
To hide from me in Canterbury bells
See! I have caught them for you. They are dead . . . .
But still their beaten wings are black and red.
St C/38; Xmas 26/37; ATL 280-09/30
Chch Sun 1 July 1927
Firelight
They say, the world's a wisp of smoke
Drifting from some great yellow fire
That blazes in the sun, or higher
Than we can guess, we simple folk.
Little rings of blue, Pierrette,
Laze around your cigarette
Round-about, they say, we whirl
Faster than the smoke-rings curl,
Faster than the orange spark
Leaping for the chimney-dark,
Faster than the flames that leap
Like a tiger roused from sleep
By the crackle of the trees,
By a man-scent on the breeze.
Thus and thus they say --and yet
You can seem so still, Pierrette
They say, the great stars wheel and clash
To some moon-crazy fiddler's measure
Having no thought for peace nor pleasure --
Golden with flame or gaunt with ash
So they say. How soft, Pierrette,
Round about your cigarette,
Wisps of blue come clustering!
Quiet as a nested wing
Is the darkness of your head
On its cushion black and red
Poppy-red, the lamplight lies
Dreamingly in dreaming eyes
And your throat is childish-still
As a star-entrancιd hill
As a forest wet with rain
List'ning for its birds again.
St C/43; Xmas 26/32; ATL 280-09/45
Chch Sun 11 Nov 1927
The Circus
It is night. All the dark grave skies are silver-spangled
Like a circus girl who dances to a crazy tune
And the bold brown hands of the riding wind are tangled
In the wind blown mane of the tiger-yellow moon.
And shadows are the panthers, with velvet-padding feet
Cling together, you and I. Lie close and hold your breath,
But the wind cracks his whip, and the wind shout is sweet
And the stars are silver bars on the black cage of Death.
But night is a colombine and that slim [ind---] bright beech
Is poor Pierrot, who draws upon the twinkle of her toes
With his dark young boughs a-murmur. She is ever out of reach
But she breaks off a spray of stars and flings it like a rose!
He has caught her to his breast oh the night's skirts are blue
And warm starlight loves them in their shadowy [checkered] glade
For her scent is all of lilies her eyes are bracken-dew
Ah, children, you and I! We forget to be afraid.
Xmas 26/35; Vol 2/2; AU 2.1-2
Wine of the Moon
Down in the darkness, azalea trees
Stand with the starlight awash at their knees
Lady, tread softly! The cold silver moon
Drowns your bright buckles and laps at your shoon!
For earth is a bowl with the stars on its rim
The night-gods have filled it with wine to the brim,
A faun in the grasses lies piping a tune
'Come drink, pretty lady! The wine of the moon!'
'Tis nymph-feet have trodden your draught from the flowers
That open strange petals in perilous hours
The hot perfumes quiver, the bright bubbles shine
Come drink, pretty lady, of Arcady's wine!
As moths of the night flutter close to the bowers,
And honey-sweet lips of carnivorous flowers
Your dreams hover nigh in the dangerous draught!
Ah hear! In the darkness, the faun-music laughed.
The world is a chalice with stars on its rim,
The clear silver light sparkles cold at the brim
Lady, beware! Lest your gay-winging soul
Fall and be drowned in the blind silver bowl.
Vol 2/19
The Spike 28. 53 (June 1928): 17
Foxglove
'And there she is, the painted mime,'
Cries daubed Pierrot, 'my Columbine.
Sometimes green-golden, like the woods,
Purple and russet, as such hoods
Wanderers wore, ere Lady Fashion
Forgot the crackling hues of passion.
Yet sometimes I am half afraid,
Watching her starlit like a glade,
Watching her silvered like the moon,
A fruit, and not for plucking soon.
By whiles she takes her tambourine,
And then the tavern oafs have seen
At once the trull, the silvern spell
Old Merlin knew, and knew too well.
Ah, foxglove she, yet floating flower
White on the mere, beyond my power . . .
And wizard help whose heart is set
On that lost moonglade named Pierrette.'
AU 21, AU 71.1-2
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