China and the West

Lowell, Amy. Works.
1912
Lowell, Amy. A little song. In : Lyrical poems. In : Lowell, Amy. A dome of many-coloured glass. (Boston : H. Mifflin, 1912).
… In a single flash, while your streaming hair
Catches the stars and pulls them down
To shine on some slumbering Chinese town...

1914
Lowell, Amy. Sword blades and poppy seed. (New York, N.Y. : Macmillan, 1914).
A little shop with its various ware
Spread on shelves with nicest care.
Pitchers, and jars, and jugs, and pots,
Pipkins, and mugs, and many lots
Of lacquered canisters, black and gold,
Like those in which Chinese tea is sold…
These vases, poisoned venoms spout,
Impregnate with old Chinese charms;
Sealed urns containing mortal harms,
They fill the mind with thoughts impure,
Pestilent drippings from the ure
Of vicious thinkings…
At last, he poured it back into
The china jar of Holland blue,
Which he carefully carried to its place…
Of sandalwood, and pungent China teas,
Tobacco, coffee!"…
At highest tide she lets her anchor go,
And starts for China…
Loose in a china teapot, may confess
His need, but may not borrow till his friend
Comes back to give…
I brought from China, herbs the natives smoke,
Was with me, and I thought merely to play a game…

1916
Lowell, Amy. Men, women and ghosts. (New York, N.Y. : Macmillan, 1916).
The china shone upon the dresser, topped
By polished copper vessels which her skill
Kept brightly burnished. It was very still…
He drew her into the shade of the sails,
And whispered tales
Of voyages in the China seas,
And his arm around her
Held and bound her…
Tramp of men.
Steady tramp of men.
Slit-eyed Chinese with long pigtails
Bearing oblong things upon their shoulders
March slowly along the road to Longwood…
And one of them Captain Bennett's dining-table!
And sixteen splendid Chinamen, all strong and able And of assured neutrality…
The fire snaps pleasantly, and the old Chinaman nods—nods…
The china mandarin on the bookcase nods slowly, forward and
back--forward and back--and the red rose writhes and wriggles,
thrusting its flaming petals under and over one another like tortured
snakes…
A music-stand of crimson lacquer, long since brought
In some fast clipper-ship from China, quaintly wrought
With bossed and carven flowers and fruits in blackening gold…
He took his Chinese pastilles and put them in a mass
Upon the mantelpiece till he could seek a plate
Worthy to hold them burning…
I saw them as a circle of ghosts
Sipping blackness out of beautiful china,
And mildly protesting against my coarseness
In being alive…
A man carries a china mug of coffee to a distant chair…

1917
Lowell, Amy. Ombre chinoise. In : The Yale review ; Jan. (1917).
Red foxgloves against a yellow wall
Streaked with plum-coloured shadows ;
A lady with a red and blue sunshade ;
The slow dash of waves upon a parapet
That is all.
Non-existent – immortal –
A solid as the centre of a ring of fine gold.

1917
Lowell, Amy. Tendencies in modern American poetry. (New York, N.Y. : Macmilan, 1917).
What are these names ? Some are Anglo-Saxon, aome are clearly German ; one, 'Russian Sonia', tells of an origin, if not distinctly national, at least distinctly cosmopolitan ; an other, 'Yee Bow', is as obviously Chinese. We do not find German, French, Chinese names in Mr. Frost's books…
Sometimes the poet's conception of more Chinese than Japanese :
An Oiran and her Kamuso.
Gilded hummingbirds are whizzing
Through the palace garden,
Deceived by the jade petals
Of the Emperor's jewel-trees.
That is almost distinctly Chinese…
In 'Spoon River', there are no primary characters, no secondary characters. We have only a town and the people who inhabit it. The Chinese laundry-man is as important to himself as the State's Attorney is to himself…

1918
Lowell, Amy. Can Grande's castle. (Boston : H. Mifflin, 1918).
The coaling ships have arrived, and the shore is a hive of Negroes, and Malys, and Lascars, and Chinese…
The beautiful dresses,
Blue, Green, Mauve, Yellos ;
And the beautiful green pointed hats
Like Chinese porcelains !...
Vessels glaore choke the wharves. From China, Siam, Malaya ; Sumatra, Europe, America…
Winter, with green, high, angular seas. Bot over the water, far toward China, are burning the furnaces of three great steamers, and four sailing vessels heel over, with decks slanted and sails full and pulling…
Ten ships sailing for China on a fair May wind. Ten ships sailing from one world into another, but never again into the one they left…

1919
Lowell, Amy. Pictures of the floating world. (London : Macmillan, 1919).
Foreword : The first part of this book represents some of the
charm I have found in delving into Chinese and Japanese poetry…
From China I thought :
The moon,
Shining upon the many steps of the palace before me…
It plays at ball in old, blue Chinese gardens,
And shakes wrought dice-cups in Pagan temples
Amid the broken flutings of white pillars…
Above, the models of four brown Chinese junks
Sailing round the brown walls,
Silent and motionless…The brown Chinese junks sail silently round the brown walls…
Thrust back against the swaying lilac leaves,
Will bloom and fade before the China asters
Smear their crude colours over Autumn hazes…
Toss on some Chinese white to flash the clouds,
And trust the sunlight you've got in your paint.
Warm it on tea-pots
She sat in a Chinese wicker chair
Wide at the top like a spread peacock's tail,
And toyed with a young man's heart which she held
lightly in her fingers…
A Dresden china shepherdess,
Flaunted before a tall mirror
On a high mantelpiece…

1925
Lowell, Amy. What's o'clock. (Boston : Houghton Mifflin, 1925).
The strange pink colour of Chinese porcelains ;
Wonderful – the glow of them…
I might be sighting a tea-clipper,
Tacking into the blue bay,
Just back from Canton
With her hold full of green and blue porcelain,
And a Chinese coolie leaning over the rail
Gazing at the white spire
With dull, sea-spent eyes…
Pipkins, pans, and pannikins,
China teapots, tin and pewter,
Baskets woven of green rushes…
Charging the noses of quill-driving clerks
When a ship was in from China.
You called to them : "Goose-quill men, goose-quill men, May is a month for flitting," Until they writhed on their high stools And wrote poetry on their letter-sheets behind the propped-up ledgers…
I might be sighting a tea-clipper,
Tacking into the blue bay,
Just back from Canton
With her hold full of green and blue porcelain,
And a Chinese coolie leaning over the rail
Gazing at the white spire
With dull, sea-spent eyes…