The Living Dead

Honouring our poetic ancestors

Parting
Tanith Lee

Cool, your hair drifts like water,
As you move in this ancient sunrise dance
Which began with the first girl at the first well,
Her arms and yours like the necks of swans,
Twining the red pitcher.
This is how I shall remember you all my life.
This clear crystal daybreak thing,
After the night's sharing, the lamp, the dark,
The shelter of love.
So, in the wine-press of battle,
Trampled into a strong drink for death,
So in the marshes, and the bitter places,
In the rusty tents,
Hungry and thirsty, far from all wells,
And afraid,
So in pain and loss, so in dying, if some god wills it,
I will remember you, and your floating hair,
Turning and smiling, you, lifting the red pitcher from the well,
Like a dream not vanished with sleeping.

You must not weep now
That the charm of ivory you are pressing into my palm
Is too little.
It was so simple for you to give me something beautiful
To carry forward to the world's end.
It was so simple for you to give me something beautiful.

From Unsilent Night. Cambridge MA, The NESFA Press, © 1981

Yes, another poem by Tanith Lee, whom I featured only a month ago — because she is gone now, and because her poems are so hard to find. There is no volume of her 'collected' poems; there are none at PoemHunter or other such sites. There is only the slender book this poem came from, which I was able to get second-hand from Amazon, with the help of a friend in America, and which contains ten poems and two long stories.

If you missed the previous post, with details of her career, it is here.

The Living Dead

Honouring our poetic ancestors

19-9-1947 - 24-5-2015 

Though we come and go, and pass into the shadows, where we leave

behind us stories told – on paper, on the wings of butterflies, on the

wind, on the hearts of others – there we are remembered, there we work

magic and great change – passing on the fire like a torch – forever

and forever. Till the sky falls, and all things are flawless and need

no words at all.

Tanith Lee

One of my very favourite writers has just died. Well-known as an author of fantasy and horror novels, she was also a playwright — and a poet. Unfortunately her poetry is hard to find. The words above are hers, but are more accurately described as poetic prose. They are now the only thing on her website, red against a black background; presumably at her behest, ahead of time, or perhaps chosen by her husband. The press report says she died peacefully in her sleep after a long illness. 

I just finished reading one of her books a few days ago! (Cast a Bright Shadow.) And only yesterday, knowing nothing of the news I was about to learn, I was thinking that I must re-read The Silver Metal Lover which I found when I was a young mother, soon after it was first published in 1981. It has remained one of my most cherished books, and I have re-read it several times. I consider it the most beautifully romantic book ever written.

It was also the book which introduced me to its author. Though I think nothing equals its perfection, her other books are wonderful too. She created magic and beauty. 

She was incredibly prolific. Just have a look at this bibliography! Here is her Amazon page (which is of course many pages long). If you love poetry — as I know you do — you will love her fiction too, which loses nothing by being written in beautiful language.

You can read one bit of it for free online (complete with typos by whoever transcribed it, but nothing can spoil the tale). She rewrote some fairytales, and this is her version of Cinderella.

Her Wikipedia entry says:

Lee's style is frequently remarked upon for its use of rich poetic prose and striking imagery. Critics describe her style as weird, lush, vibrant, exotic, erotic, rich, elegant, perverse, and darkly beautiful. The technique she uses is very descriptive and poetic which works well with the themes she uses in her mythical stories.

And she tells great stories! But I am explaining why I include her in a column about poets. Simply, it is because she was one — even if many other things besides. Though her poetry is difficult to find on the web, bits of poetry are scattered through her novels, forming part of the story — including this untitled piece from The Silver Metal Lover.

 A rose by any other name

 Would get the blame

 For being what it is -

 The colour of a kiss,

 The shadow of a flame.

 A rose may earn another name,

 So call it love;

 So call it love I will,

 And love is like the sea,

 Which changes constantly,

 And yet is still

 The same.