The nursery fire burns brightly, crackling in cheerful

little explosions

and trails of sparks up the back of the chimney. Miniature

rockets

peppering the black bricks with golden stars, as though a gala

flamed a night of victorious wars.

The nodding mandarin on the bookcase moves his

head forward and back, slowly,

and looks into the air with his blue-green eyes. He stares

into the air

and nods — forward and back. The red rose in his hand

is a crimson splash

on his yellow coat. Forward and back, and his blue-green

eyes stare

into the air, and he nods — nods.

Tommy’s soldiers march to battle,

Trumpets flare and snare-drums rattle.

Bayonets flash, and sabres glance —

How the horses snort and prance!

Cannon drawn up in a line

Glitter in the dizzy shine

Of the morning sunlight. Flags

Ripple colours in great jags.

Red blows out, then blue, then green,

Then all three — a weaving sheen

Of prismed patriotism. March

Tommy’s soldiers, stiff and starch,

Boldly stepping to the rattle

Of the drums, they go to battle.

Tommy lies on his stomach on the floor and directs his columns.

He puts his infantry in front, and before them ambles a mounted

band.

Their instruments make a strand of gold before the scarlet-tunicked

soldiers,

and they take very long steps on their little green platforms,

and from the ranks bursts the song of Tommy’s soldiers marching

to battle.

The song jolts a little as the green platforms stick on the thick

carpet.

Tommy wheels his guns round the edge of a box of blocks, and places

a squad of cavalry on the commanding eminence of a footstool.

The fire snaps pleasantly, and the old Chinaman nods — nods. The

fire makes

the red rose in his hand glow and twist. Hist! That

is a bold song

Tommy’s soldiers sing as they march along to battle.

Crack! Rattle! The sparks

fly up the chimney.

Tommy’s army’s off to war —

Not a soldier knows what for.

But he knows about his rifle,

How to shoot it, and a trifle

Of the proper thing to do

When it’s he who is shot through.

Like a cleverly trained flea,

He can follow instantly

Orders, and some quick commands

Really make severe demands

On a mind that’s none too rapid,

Leaden brains tend to the vapid.

But how beautifully dressed

Is this army! How impressed

Tommy is when at his heel

All his baggage wagons wheel

About the patterned carpet, and

Moving up his heavy guns

He sees them glow with diamond suns

Flashing all along each barrel.

And the gold and blue apparel

Of his gunners is a joy.

Tommy is a lucky boy.

Boom! Boom! Ta-ra!

The old mandarin nods under his purple umbrella. The

rose in his hand

shoots its petals up in thin quills of crimson. Then

they collapse

and shrivel like red embers. The fire sizzles.

Tommy is galloping his cavalry, two by two, over the floor. They

must pass

the open terror of the door and gain the enemy encamped under the

wash-stand.

The mounted band is very grand, playing allegro and leading the

infantry on

at the double quick. The tassel of the hearth-rug has

flung down

the bass-drum, and he and his dapple-grey horse lie overtripped,

slipped out of line, with the little lead drumsticks glistening

to the fire’s shine.

The fire burns and crackles, and tickles the tripped

bass-drum

with its sparkles.

The marching army hitches its little green platforms

valiantly, and steadily

approaches the door. The overturned bass-drummer, lying

on the hearth-rug,

melting in the heat, softens and sheds tears. The song

jeers

at his impotence, and flaunts the glory of the martial and still

upstanding,

vaunting the deeds it will do. For are not Tommy’s soldiers

all bright and new?

Tommy’s leaden soldiers we,

Glittering with efficiency.

Not a button’s out of place,

Tons and tons of golden lace

Wind about our officers.

Every manly bosom stirs

At the thought of killing — killing!

Tommy’s dearest wish fulfilling.

We are gaudy, savage, strong,

And our loins so ripe we long

First to kill, then procreate,

Doubling so the laws of Fate.

On their women we have sworn

To graft our sons. And overborne

They’ll rear us younger soldiers, so

Shall our race endure and grow,

Waxing greater in the wombs

Borrowed of them, while damp tombs

Rot their men. O Glorious War!

Goad us with your points, Great Star!

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.

The fire strokes them with its dartles, and purrs

at them,

and the old man nods.

Tommy does not hear the song. He only sees the beautiful,

new,

gaily-coloured lead soldiers. They belong to him, and

he is very proud

and happy. He shouts his orders aloud, and gallops his

cavalry past the door

to the wash-stand. He creeps over the floor on his hands

and knees

to one battalion and another, but he sees only the bright colours

of his soldiers and the beautiful precision of their gestures.

He is a lucky boy to have such fine lead soldiers to enjoy.

Tommy catches his toe in the leg of the wash-stand, and jars the

pitcher.

He snatches at it with his hands, but it is too late. The

pitcher falls,

and as it goes, he sees the white water flow over its lip. It

slips

between his fingers and crashes to the floor. But it

is not water which oozes

to the door. The stain is glutinous and dark, a spark

from the firelight

heads it to red. In and out, between the fine, new soldiers,

licking over the carpet, squirms the stream of blood, lapping at

the little green platforms, and flapping itself against the painted

uniforms.

The nodding mandarin moves his head slowly, forward and back.

The rose is broken, and where it fell is black blood. The

old mandarin leers

under his purple umbrella, and nods — forward and back, staring

into the air

with blue-green eyes. Every time his head comes forward

a rosebud pushes

between his lips, rushes into full bloom, and drips to the ground

with a splashing sound. The pool of black blood grows

and grows,

with each dropped rose, and spreads out to join the stream from

the wash-stand. The beautiful army of lead soldiers steps

boldly forward,

but the little green platforms are covered in the rising stream

of blood.

The nursery fire burns brightly and flings fan-bursts of stars up

the chimney,

as though a gala flamed a night of victorious wars.

***

More poems by Amy Lowell