Here is a very puzzling and enigmatic poem by the great British poet Stevie Smith:
Pretty
Why is the word pretty so
underrated?
In November the leaf is pretty when
it falls
The stream grows deep in the woods
after rain
And in the pretty pool the pike
stalks
He stalks his prey, and this is
pretty too,
The prey escapes with an underwater
flash
But not for long, the great fish has
him now
The pike is a fish who always has
his prey
And this is pretty. The water rat is
pretty
His paws are not webbed, he cannot
shut his nostrils
As the otter can and the beaver, he
is torn between
The land and water. Not ‘torn’, he
does not mind.
The owl hunts in the evening and it
is pretty
The lake water below him rustles
with ice
There is frost coming from the
ground, in the air mist
All this is pretty, it could not be
prettier.
Yes, it could always be prettier,
the eye abashes
It is becoming an eye that cannot
see enough,
Out of the wood the eye climbs. This
is prettier
A field in the evening, tilting up.
The field tilts to the sky. Though
it is late
The sky is lighter than the hill
field
All this looks easy but really it is
extraordinary
Well, it is extraordinary to be so
pretty.
And it is careless, and that is
always pretty
This field, this owl, this pike,
this pool are careless,
As Nature is always careless and
indifferent
Who sees, who steps, means nothing,
and this is pretty.
So a person can come along like a
thief—pretty!—
Stealing a look, pinching the sound
and feel,
Lick the icicle broken from the bank
And still say nothing at all, only
cry pretty.
Cry pretty, pretty, pretty and
you’ll be able
Very soon not even to cry pretty
And so be delivered entirely from
humanity
This is prettiest of all, it is very
pretty.
Stevie Smith
I am writing about this poem for a presentation at a critical seminar on Stevie Smith at the West Chester Poetry Conference in early June.
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