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THE NON-WORKS
of
SAMUEL TYLDSLEY
 
 
 
 

   CHAPTER_1

         These apparently early poems were found handwritten on scraps of paper loosely bound in one of Tyldsley's notebooks.⁵  Though most of these papers were not dated, typewritten copies of several poems from this group were discovered in a file folder.  These were dated March, 1949.
        While we cannot, with certainty, classify these poems together, they seem to share a mood and style that sets them apart from Tyldsley's other works.
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 

                                                       Let a ray
                                                                of truth
                                                       shine through
                                                                 this veil of tears
                                                       and guide my pen
                                                                 beyond this sordid rhetoric
                                                       which plagues my words
                                                                 and binds my soul.
 
 
 
 
 
 
 

      If a man cries
       in the subway
       and no one cares,
       does he make a sound?
 

                                     I hear the furious wind
                                     clearly bellow,
                                     "Freedom! Freedom!
                                     Let not your soul be bound!"

                                      Once you were
                                      mere breeze,
                                      O, vicious wind.
                                      Now my ears grow deaf
                                      to all but your maniacal chant.

                                      And so it seems,
                                       the mad must shout
                                       (to sway themselves
                                                            if not another),
                                       while the wise
                                       await the eager
                                       with their words.
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 

 Truth,
  why standest thou in shadows,
     far from me?

 "HERE WAS I SENT,
  HERE I REMAIN..."

 Forsooth,
  wert thou sent, or from seekers
     dost thou flee?

 "BANISHED QUOTH I,
  BY HIM WHO FEIGNS SEEK.
    WITH NARROW EYES AND HEAVY FEET
    HE REGARDS BUT THE FLOWERS
    ON HIS WELL-PRUNED PATH."

 But,
  must we not prune the false
          from the true?

"THY WORDS BETRAY THY PETTY SOUL."

 My query yet lies open.
 

 "CAST ASIDE
WHAT NEEDEST THOU NOT,
    THOUGH SCATTER IT NEITHER.
 TAKE THIS CHAFF,
  WHICH THOU WOULD'ST TREAD,
    AND PLACE IT HERE ASIDE-
 AND THEN THY WAY RESUME."

 But,
if it is mere waste,
  why stands it thus in shadows,
    preserved by the way?
 

 "HERE WAS I SENT,
  THUS I REMAIN."
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 

                                                            Where stand you now,
                                                                 O great brave soul?
                                                            What have you gained?

                                                             Crowned with gems
                                                                            of self-acclaim,
                                                                  you gaze
                                                                  from your far off peak
                                                                            at the hazards
                                                                            there overtrod.

                                                              And what is left to climb
                                                                  as you stand upon the height,
                                                                             ascent upon the mist?

                                                       HOW WILT THY DIE,
                                                       STRONG BRAVE MAN?

                                                        "Struck by a bolt
                                                                      from the heavens
                                                                      if I should offend them."

                                                        NAY, SMALL BRAVE MAN,
                                                        FOR SUCH ARE THY DEEDS,
                                                        THE HEAVENS REGARD
                                                                 THEM NAUGHT.

                                                         "Still, I will die
                                                                      a strong brave man
                                                          in glorious strife
                                                                       before a mighty foe."
 

                                                          NAY, SMALL, BRAVE,  MAN,
                                                          NO FOE SEEKS THY LIFE;
                                                          IT IS NO CUMBRANCE,
                                                          AND THY DEATH,
                                                          IT IS NO PRIZE.

                                                           "Will I then die,
                                                                       tortured old fool,
                                                                       by mine own cause?"

                                                            FROM OUT THE DARKNESS
                                                            ALL IS LIGHT.
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 

 Poor tortured fool,
      bereft of thy wits,
 to what dost thou hearken?

 Doth night hail to thee?

 Do voices thou once loved cry out?
 Dost thou hear a young man shout,
        "Come home, my son, come home!"?

 Dost thou listen for the silence?
 Doth thy life leave thee behind?
 Dost not thou hear thy tomb lament.
        "No peace awaits thee hear."
 
 
 
 
 
 
 

                                                  The wind doth rise
                                                   and call my name.
                                                   The sky, my home, doth bid,
                                                           "Tread light, my prodigal."

                                                   Within my breast is calmed.
 
 

                                                                      Yet, what is mine
                                                                       but just this moment?
                                                     Will not these threads
                                                                       too soon fade to dust,
                                                                       my poor flesh for to follow?

                                                      What, then, can I be,
                                                       if not a wind - a whim -

                                                       a dream...
                                                       a leaf which tumbles to the ground;
                                                       a child,
                                                                   lost
                                                       and far from home.
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 

Extracted from his sheltered home,
    he wanders -
 never far enough to start anew,
 yet too far to e'er return.

 Deprived of love,
 he pines,
          but ne're dares brave
               thin ice of trust.

            One and all,
  they pass his eyes,
  and through his tears,
             they pass away.
 
 
 
 
 
 
 

                                                                       Alone stand I,
                                                                        before no hearth-

                                                                        tomorrow but illusion,
                                                                        yesterday,
                                                                        a dream.

                                                                        Alone,
                                                                        and yet besieged;
                                                                        by phantoms
                                                                        of my conscience

                                                                        who tell me
                                                                        truth,
                                                                        is but unproven

                                                                        lies.
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 

            Cast a pebble in a pond,
            Which is longer,
                  pebble's plight
                  or ripple's flow?                                            Oh, to be free-
                                                                                      free of my thoughts
                                                                                              and the plague
                                                                                               of my clouded
                                                                                                             mind.
                                                    Leave me,
                                                    O, unjust and evil spirit.

                                                    Why hast thou come
                                                     to torment me
                                                     with dreams of what
                                                      I should have done,
                                                      things that could have been,
                                                      and thoughts I mustn't think?
 
 
 
 

 Guard well your cold sanity,
      with high walls of conformity;

 For you may find warmth,
      and haven for peace.

 Aye, these walls are high -

  from either side.
 
 

          The music playing is "Benedicam Domino" by Robert Johnson.  It was sequenced by David Cooke and can be found at  Dave Cooke's corner of the Public Domain.