"Still Falls The Rain" by Edith Sitwell

Still Falls the Rain
(The Raids, 1940, Night and Dawn)

Still falls the Rain -
Dark as the world of man, black as our loss-
Blind as the nineteen hundred and forty nails
Upon the Cross

Still falls the Rain
With a sound like the pulse of the heart that is changed to the hammer-beat
in the Potter's Field, and the sound of the impious feet

On the Tomb:
Still falls the Rain
In the Field of Blood where the small hopes breed and the human brain
Nurtures its greed, that worm with the brow of Cain.

Still falls the Rain
At the feet of the Starved Man hung upon the Cross.
Christ that each day, each night, nails there
have mercy on us-
On Dives and on Lazarus:
Under the Rain the sore and the gold are as one.

Still falls the Rain-
Still falls the Blood from the Starved Man's wounded Side:
He bears in his Heart all wounds- those of the light
that died
The last faint spark
In the self-murdered heart, the wounds of the sad, uncomprehending dark,
The wounds of the baited bear -
The blind and weeping bear whom the keepers beat
On his helpless flesh... the tears of the hunted hare.

Still falls the Rain-
Then - O Ile leape up to my God: who pulles me doune-
See, see where Christ's blood streames in the firmament:
It flows from the Brow we nailed upon the tree
Deep to the dying, to the thirsting heart
That holds the fires of the world - dark-smirched with pain
As Caesar's laurel crown.

Then sounds the voice of One who like the heart of man
Was once a child who among beasts has lain-
'Still do I love, still shed my innocent light, my Blood for thee'.
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Remembering... Dame Edith Sitwell

Writer and critic Edith Sitwell wrote poetry (including Still Falls The Rain, appropriately enough for the day about the London Blitz) for love, but wrote nonfiction (including two studies of Elizabeth I - also entirely appropriate for the day*) for money. Nevertheless, today her poetry is obscure, at best, while her histories maintain the popularity they've had since they were published. That's what love gets you, I suppose...

In Sitwell's case, love also brought her a dose of heartache; when she was 40 she fell in love with the Russian painter Pavel Tchelitchew, who was then 29. Whether or not she knew he was gay when she did probably didn't matter, at least not to her heart.

As she got older Dame Edith Sitwell's feuds got feudier, her manner of dress more outlandish, and understandably her legend grew, as no one loves a freaky weirdo like the English. While Edith Sitwell lived - beginning on this day in 1887 - obscurity just would not do; her December 1964 death has given her - and her eccentricity - its rightful place amongst the greats.

*In terms of synergy, September 7th is one of the best days of the year at the Pop Culture Institute.
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