Arthur Seymour John Tessimond
Biography of Arthur Seymour John Tessimond
Arthur Seymour John Tessimond (Birkenhead, July 19, 1902 - Chelsea, London May 13, 1962) was an English poet.
He went to Charterhouse School, but ran away at age 16. After studying at Liverpool University, he moved to London where he worked in bookshops, and also as a copywriter.
After avoiding military service in World War II, he later discovered he was unfit for service.
An eccentric and an Imagist, Tessimond wrote astute, elegant, urban poetry. He suffered from bipolar disorder, and received electro-convulsive therapy.
He first began to publish in the 1920s in literary magazines. He was to see three volumes of poetry were published during his life: Walls of Glass in 1934, Voices in a Giant City in 1947 and Selections in 1958. He contributed several poems to a 1952 edition of Bewick's Birds.
He died in 1962 from a brain haemorrhage.
In the mid-1970s he was the subject of a radio programme entitled Portrait of a Romantic. This, together with the publication of the posthumous selection Not Love Perhaps in 1972, increased interest in his work; and his poetry subsequently appeared in school books and anthologies.
A 1985 anthology of his work The Collected Poems of A. S. J. Tessimond, edited by Hubert Nicholson, contains previously unpublished works.
In 2010 a new collected poems, based closely on Nicholson's edition, was published by Bloodaxe Books.
In April 2010 an edition of Brian Patten's series Lost Voices on BBC Radio Four was committed solely to Tessimond.
Arthur Seymour John Tessimond's Works:
Walls of Glass (1934)
Voices in a Giant City (1947)
Not Love Perhaps (1972)
Collected Poems of A.S.J. Tessimond (2010)
This page is based on the copyrighted Wikipedia Arthur Seymour John Tessimond; it is used under the Creative Commons Attribution-ShareAlike 3.0 Unported License. You may redistribute it, verbatim or modified, providing that you comply with the terms of the CC-BY-SA.
Arthur Seymour John Tessimond Poems
This shape without space, This pattern without stuff, This stream without dimension Surrounds us, flows through us,
Not Love Perhaps
This is not Love, perhaps, Love that lays down its life, that many waters cannot quench, nor the floods drown,
One day people will touch and talk perhaps easily, And loving be natural as breathing and warm as sunlight,
Cocoon For A Skeleton
Clothes: to compose The furtive, lone Pillar of bone To some repose.
Cats no less liquid than their shadows Offer no angles to the wind. They slip, diminished, neat through loopholes Less than themselves; will not be pinned
The Man In The Bowler Hat
I am the unnoticed, the unnoticable man: The man who sat on your right in the morning train: The man who looked through like a windowpane: The man who was the colour of the carriage, the colour of the mounting
The birch tree in winter Leaning over the secret pool Is Narcissus in love With the slight white branches,
Attack On The Ad-Man
This trumpeter of nothingness, employed To keep our reason dull and null and void. This man of wind and froth and flux will sell The wares of any who reward him well.
Last Word To Childhood
Ice-cold fear has slowly decreased As my bones have grown, my height increased. Though I shiver in snow of dreams, I shall never Freeze again in a noonday terror.
When you are slightly drunk Things are so close, so friendly. The road asks to be walked upon, The road rewards you for walking
Light's patterns freeze: Frost on our faces. Light's pollen sifts Through the lids of our eyes ...
We are a people living in shells and moving Crablike; reticent, awkward, deeply suspicious; Watching the world from a corner of half-closed eyelids, Afraid lest someone show that he hates or loves us,
Unlyric Love Song
It is time to give that-of-myself which I could not at first: To offer you now at last my least and my worst: Minor, absurd preserves, The shell's end-curves,
If a man says half himself in the light, adroit Way a tune shakes into equilibrium, Or approximates to a note that never comes:
Symphony In Red
Within the church
The solemn priests advance,
And the sunlight, stained by the heavy windows,
Dyes a yet richer red the scarlet banners
And the scarlet robes of the young boys that bear them,
And the thoughts of one of these are far away,
With carmined lips pouting an invitation,
Are with his love - his love, like a crimson poppy
Flaunting amid prim lupins;