Refugee Blues -- W H Auden

Guest poem submitted by David Croll:

(Poem #1869) Refugee Blues Say this city has ten million souls Some are living in mansions, some are living in holes: Yet there's no place for us, my dear, yet there's no place for us. Once we had a country and we thought it fair, Look in the atlas and you'll find it there: We cannot go there now, my dear, we cannot go there now. In the village churchyard there grows an old yew, Every spring it blossoms anew: Old passports can't do that, my dear, old passports can't do that. The consul banged the table and said, "If you've got no passport you're officially dead": But we are still alive, my dear, but we are still alive. Went to a committee; they offered me a chair; Asked me politely to return next year: But where whall we go to-day, my dear, but where shall we go to-day? Came to a public meeting; the speaker got up and said; "If we let them in, they will steal our daily bread": He was talking of you and me, my dear, he was talking of you and me. Thought I heard the thunder rumbling in the sky; It was Hitler over Europe, saying, "They must die": O we were in is mind, my dear, O we were in his mind. Saw a poodle in a jacket fastened with a pin, Saw a door opened and a cat let in: But they weren't German Jews, my dear, but they weren't German Jews. Went down the harbour and stood upon the quay, Saw the fish swimming if they were free: Only ten feet away, my dear, only ten feet away. Walked through a wood, saw birds in the trees; They had no politicians and sang at their ease: They weren't the human race, my dear, they weren't the human race. Dreamed I saw a building with a thousand floors, A thousand windows and a thousand doors: Not one of them was ours, my dear, not one of them was ours. Stood on a great plain in the falling snow; Ten thousand soldiers marched to and fro: Looking for you and me, my dears, looking for you and me. -- W H Auden

This poem first struck my attention in the fall of 2003, when I was engaged
in preparation for the university-entrance diploma exams. Second, I was
getting to know my girlfriend then, for whom I translated it into German. A
few people said I was fallen in love when they read the translation, and
they were right.

What Auden conveys so convincingly is the apparent futileness of intellect
in face of circumstances like the mass extermination of Jews during the
Second World War; and because most of the killed Jews have not been
intellectual masterminds like Auden was, he correctly puts the words on the
tongue of laymen: They can't understand anything about their doom, because
doom just waits for them. They resort to analogies they understand (birds,
fishes, the lameness of bureaucracy) and know how to use them - but they use
them with striking efficacy.

David Croll.

[thomas adds]

Vikram Doctor's commentary on Poem #427, "The Two", is worth reproducing
here:

        The other Auden poems we've had so far show his lyrical
        side or his questioning intelligence. But this poem has
        another aspect of Auden's - the ability to create a
        picture of nightmarish fear, of being hunted and pursued,
        of having 'them' after you. Not for nothing is Auden the
        dominant poet of the Thirties, the worst, most frightening
        and disturbed decade of our century. The Depression, the
        rise of fascism and other tyrannies, all the cowardices
        and compromises of what he called 'a low dishonest decade',
        it all seeps into Auden's verse, and what he does with it
        is unforgettable.

        -- http://www.cs.rice.edu/~ssiyer/minstrels/poems/427.html

See also:
        Poem #371, "O What Is That Sound?"
        Poem #386, "The Unknown Citizen"
        Poem #889, "September 1, 1939"
        Poem #1508, "O Where Are You Going?"
for more examples of Auden's reaction to the nightmare of WWII.

The Composer -- W H Auden

Guest poem submitted by Janice:

(Poem #1845) The Composer All the others translate: the painter sketches A visible world to love or reject; Rummaging into his living, the poet fetches The images out that hurt and connect. From Life to Art by painstaking adaption Relying on us to cover the rift; Only your notes are pure contraption, Only your song is an absolute gift. Pour out your presence, O delight, cascading The falls of the knee and the weirs of the spine, Our climate of silence and doubt invading; You, alone, alone, O imaginary song, Are unable to say an existence is wrong, And pour out your forgiveness like a wine. -- W H Auden

Auden always surprises me. Just when I think I've read everything, or almost
everything, out pops another poem that I've never seen -- and end up loving.
Take "The Composer" for example. I have Auden's collected poems lovingly
stashed on my book shelf and then I find this poem on my GRE subject test --
the one I took last Saturday! Just goes to show that poetry does truly find
you and not the other way round!

I love what he says about the painter and the poet, even though they only
'translate'... interesting how he says 'relying on us to cover the rift'.
And then suddenly -- almost like a symphony itself -- the poem takes off and
rises high above itself when he describes music. Music that delights,
uplifts, cascades over us and 'our climate of silence and doubt invading'.
So beautiful :)

Janice.

Doggerel by a Senior Citizen -- W H Auden

Guest poem submitted by William Grey:

(Poem #1771) Doggerel by a Senior Citizen Our earth in 1969 Is not the planet I call mine, The world, I mean, that gives me strength To hold off chaos at arm's length. My Eden landscapes and their climes Are constructs from Edwardian times, When bath-rooms took up lots of space, And, before eating, one said Grace. The automobile, the aeroplane, Are useful gadgets, but profane: The enginry of which I dream Is moved by water or by steam. Reason requires that I approve The light-bulb which I cannot love: To me more reverence-commanding A fish-tail burner on the landing. My family ghosts I fought and routed, Their values, though, I never doubted: I thought the Protestant Work-Ethic Both practical and sympathetic. When couples played or sang duets, It was immoral to have debts: I shall continue till I die To pay in cash for what I buy. The Book of Common Prayer we knew Was that of 1662: Though with-it sermons may be well, Liturgical reforms are hell. Sex was of course -- it always is -- The most enticing of mysteries, But news-stands did not then supply Manichean pornography. Then Speech was mannerly, an Art, Like learning not to belch or fart: I cannot settle which is worse, The Anti-Novel or Free Verse. Nor are those Ph.D's my kith, Who dig the symbol and the myth: I count myself a man of letters Who writes, or hopes to, for his betters. Dare any call Permissiveness An educational success? Saner those class-rooms which I sat in, Compelled to study Greek and Latin. Though I suspect the term is crap, There is a Generation Gap, Who is to blame? Those, old or young, Who will not learn their Mother-Tongue. But Love, at least, is not a state Either en vogue or out-of-date, And I've true friends, I will allow, To talk and eat with here and now. Me alienated? Bosh! It's just As a sworn citizen who must Skirmish with it that I feel Most at home with what is Real. -- W H Auden

This poem is a lot of fun. It was written by Auden (1907-1973), for Robert
Lederer, when he was getting old and curmudgeonly, and it's about getting
old and curmudgeonly. Writing engaging doggerel is more challenging than it
seems. Auden often expresses his values by dialectical opposition --
Arcadian versus Utopian ('Vespers'), or Hermetic versus Apollonian ('Under
Which Lyre', Poem #1082) -- in this one his prejudices are articulated
simply and directly.

William Grey.

O Where Are You Going? -- W H Auden

Guest poem submitted by Daedalus Athenai:

(Poem #1508) O Where Are You Going? "O where are you going?" said reader to rider, "That valley is fatal when furnaces burn, Yonder's the midden whose odours will madden, That gap is the grave where the tall return." "O do you imagine," said fearer to farer, "That dusk will delay on your path to the pass, Your diligent looking discover the lacking Your footsteps feel from granite to grass?" "O what was that bird," said horror to hearer, "Did you see that shape in the twisted trees? Behind you swiftly the figure comes softly, The spot on your skin is a shocking disease." "Out of this house," said rider to reader, "Yours never will," said farer to fearer, "They're looking for you," said hearer to horror, As he left them there, as he left them there. -- W H Auden

Commentary: I think this is a beautiful poem, although I don't pretend to
understand it. I just enjoy the rhythm, with its overtones of despair and
hope in the face of despair. The wonderful imagery has inspired me to paint
a series of pictures based on this poem.

~Daedalus

[thomas adds]

Vikram Doctor has a nice mini-essay on the nightmarish qualities of Auden's
mid-30s output, in his commentary on Poem #427 on the Minstrels website.
Other Auden poems on the Minstrels can be found here:
[broken link] http://www.cs.rice.edu/~ssiyer/minstrels/index_poet_A.html#Auden

Law Like Love -- W H Auden

Guest poem sent in by Aseem Kaul

(Poem #1502) Law Like Love Law, say the gardeners, is the sun, Law is the one All gardeners obey To-morrow, yesterday, to-day. Law is the wisdom of the old, The impotent grandfathers feebly scold; The grandchildren put out a treble tongue, Law is the senses of the young. Law, says the priest with a priestly look, Expounding to an unpriestly people, Law is the words in my priestly book, Law is my pulpit and my steeple. Law, says the judge as he looks down his nose, Speaking clearly and most severely, Law is as I've told you before, Law is as you know I suppose, Law is but let me explain it once more, Law is The Law. Yet law-abiding scholars write: Law is neither wrong nor right, Law is only crimes Punished by places and by times, Law is the clothes men wear Anytime, anywhere, Law is Good morning and Good night. Others say, Law is our Fate; Others say, Law is our State; Others say, others say Law is no more, Law has gone away. And always the loud angry crowd, Very angry and very loud, Law is We, And always the soft idiot softly Me. If we, dear, know we know no more Than they about the Law, If I no more than you Know what we should and should not do Except that all agree Gladly or miserably That the Law is And that all know this If therefore thinking it absurd To identify Law with some other word, Unlike so many men I cannot say Law is again, No more than they can we suppress The universal wish to guess Or slip out of our own position Into an unconcerned condition. Although I can at least confine Your vanity and mine To stating timidly A timid similarity, We shall boast anyway: Like love I say. Like love we don't know where or why, Like love we can't compel or fly, Like love we often weep, Like love we seldom keep. -- W H Auden

In response to Michelle's call for poems about lawyers and the law, here's
one of my favourite Auden poems. Aside from the usual Auden brilliance (the
tone so nonchalantly conversational, the seemingly endless ability to carry
on with a single metaphor) this poem has always been special to me for three
reasons. First, that unlike many Auden poems this one comes to its "timid
similarity" right at the very end, so that having chuckled through the poem
once you are almost compelled to go back to the beginning and read it
through again, this time replacing Law with Love and realising how truly
brilliant the comparison is.

Second, that it's a poem that cries to be read aloud - even reading it in
one's head every stanza has it's own 'voice' creating an incredible
impression of movement as one jumps breathlessly from one person's
view--point to another's.

And finally, for a gem of a last line - one that both makes you laugh and
makes you want to cry with a terrible longing for our lost loves.  In a poem
that is otherwise fairly cheerful it introduces a note of honest grief, that
lifts the poem above the merely clever.

Aseem Kaul

After Reading a Child's Guide to Modern Physics -- W H Auden

Guest poem sent in by Zenobia Driver

(Poem #1450) After Reading a Child's Guide to Modern Physics If all a top physicist knows About the Truth be true, Then, for all the so-and-so's, Futility and grime, Our common world contains, We have a better time Than the Greater Nebulae do, Or the atoms in our brains. Marriage is rarely bliss But, surely it would be worse As particles to pelt At thousands of miles per sec About a universe Wherein a lover's kiss Would either not be felt Or break the loved one's neck. Though the face at which I stare While shaving it be cruel For, year after year, it repels An ageing suitor, it has, Thank God, sufficient mass To be altogether there, Not an indeterminate gruel Which is partly somewhere else. Our eyes prefer to suppose That a habitable place Has a geocentric view, That architects enclose A quiet Euclidian space: Exploded myths - but who Could feel at home astraddle An ever expanding saddle? This passion of our kind For the process of finding out Is a fact one can hardly doubt, But I would rejoice in it more If I knew more clearly what We wanted the knowledge for, Felt certain still that the mind Is free to know or not. It has chosen once, it seems, And whether our concern For magnitude's extremes Really become a creature Who comes in a median size, Or politicizing Nature Be altogether wise, Is something we shall learn. -- W H Auden

Note: As the son of a physicist, Auden had an enduring interest in science and
the moral issues surrounding it.
   -- http://www.bbc.co.uk/arts/poetry/outloud/auden.shtml

I could not resist a poem called 'After Reading a Child's Guide to Modern
Physics'. Never read a poem like this before - that compared one's life to
the way it would be if one was a nebula or one were an atom. (BTW can a
nebula or an atom have an identity? So 'one' in the sense of 'me' could
never be a nebula right? Anyway. )  The first time I read the poem I
couldn't stop grinning at consequences of the lovers kiss. And the lines 'but
who/ Could feel at home astraddle/ An ever expanding saddle?' totally grabbed
me. They are just too cool - the idea of some astronomical body feeling
uncomfortable because it was being stretched as the universe expanded was a
nice quirky way to think of the big bang theory. Wish he had taken a shot at
some more science theories - Darwinism would have been interesting I think.

Regards,
Zenobia D. Driver

[Links]

Auden's reading of the poem here:
  http://www.bbc.co.uk/arts/poetry/outloud/auden.shtml

Christmas Oratio -- W H Auden

Guest poem submitted by Carlynn Houghton, an excerpt from

(Poem #1413) Christmas Oratio Well, so that is that. Now we must dismantle the tree, Putting the decorations back into their cardboard boxes -- Some have got broken -- and carrying them up to the attic. The holly and the mistletoe must be taken down and burnt, And the children got ready for school. There are enough Left-overs to do, warmed-up, for the rest of the week -- Not that we have much appetite, having drunk such a lot, Stayed up so late, attempted -- quite unsuccessfully -- To love all of our relatives, and in general Grossly overestimated our powers. Once again As in previous years we have seen the actual Vision and failed To do more than entertain it as an agreeable Possibility, once again we have sent Him away, Begging though to remain His disobedient servant, The promising child who cannot keep His word for long. The Christmas Feast is already a fading memory, And already the mind begins to be vaguely aware Of an unpleasant whiff of apprehension at the thought Of Lent and Good Friday which cannot, after all, now Be very far off. But, for the time being, here we all are, Back in the moderate Aristotelian city Of darning and the Eight-Fifteen, where Euclid's geometry And Newton's mechanics would account for our experience, And the kitchen table exists because I scrub it. It seems to have shrunk during the holidays. The streets Are much narrower than we remembered; we had forgotten The office was as depressing as this. To those who have seen The Child, however dimly, however incredulously, The Time Being is, in a sense, the most trying time of all. For the innocent children who whispered so excitedly Outside the locked door where they knew the presents to be Grew up when it opened. Now, recollecting that moment We can repress the joy, but the guilt remains conscious; Remembering the stable where for once in our lives Everything became a You and nothing was an It. And craving the sensation but ignoring the cause, We look round for something, no matter what, to inhibit Our self-reflection, and the obvious thing for that purpose Would be some great suffering. So, once we have met the Son, We are tempted ever after to pray to the Father; "Lead us into temptation and evil for our sake." They will come, all right, don't worry; probably in a form That we do not expect, and certainly with a force More dreadful than we can imagine. In the meantime There are bills to be paid, machines to keep in repair, Irregular verbs to learn, the Time Being to redeem From insignificance. The happy morning is over, The night of agony still to come; the time is noon: When the Spirit must practice his scales of rejoicing Without even a hostile audience, and the Soul endure A silence that is neither for nor against her faith That God's Will will be done, That, in spite of her prayers, God will cheat no one, not even the world of its triumph. -- W H Auden

This  excerpt from Auden's "Christmas Oratio" captures the
post-Christmas letdown with fabulous humor and accuracy, and ties it so
beautifully to the human condition, to the ways we try to make sense of
the world.  Without undermining (indeed, the poem ends by affirming) our
rational thought processes, Auden illustrates the concurrent human need
for intimacy with the very world we objectify in order to understand.
"Remembering the stable where for once in our lives / Everything became
a You and nothing was an It" -- this poem was written during World War
II, and in our time, as in Auden's, objectification (they, them, their)
often seems like the cruellest of human hobbies, enabling individuals to
commit horrific and unnecessary acts of violence, and resulting also in
tragic failures to act due to indifference.  Sorry to go on -- actually,
I think the poem speaks well for itself.  Auden is nothing if not
didactic, except eloquent.

Carlynn.

As the poets have mournfully sung -- W H Auden

Guest poem submitted by Anustup Datta:

(Poem #1403) As the poets have mournfully sung As the poets have mournfully sung, Death takes the innocent young, The rolling-in-money, The screamingly-funny, And those who are very well hung. -- W H Auden

Haven't contributed something for ages, so thought I would. Came across
this oft-quoted gem while re-reading Auden, and it seemed to resonate
with my current cheerful frame of mind, so here it is. Don't think we
have run it on the group before.

As Thomas has pointed out before, Auden has a curious knack of being
just right at times - of finding just the right word or phrase that
illuminates the idea blindingly. Sometimes, this gives his work a rather
trite feel, like someone who uses his power with the language to play
around with superficial concepts. More often, though, one is simply awed
by the craftsmanship of a truly instinctive poet. Here, for instance, he
uses the somewhat farcical tone of a limerick to explore the human
condition and the death penalty that we are born with. The 'mournful'
poets mentioned in the first line number many - but the lines it reminds
me most of belong to the Rubaiyat -

  The Moving Finger writes; and, having writ,
  Moves on; nor all your Piety nor Wit
  Shall lure it back to cancel half a Line,
  Nor all your Tears wash out a Word of it.

        -- Omar Khayyam
        tr. Edward FitzGerald
        Minstrels Poem #545

The same essential idea, differently and delightfully expressed.

Anustup.

[Minstrels Links]

W. H. Auden:
Poem #50, In Memory of W. B. Yeats
Poem #68, Musee des Beaux Arts
Poem #256, Funeral Blues
Poem #307, Lay your sleeping head, my love
Poem #371, O What Is That Sound
Poem #386, The Unknown Citizen
Poem #427, The Two
Poem #491, Roman Wall Blues
Poem #494, The Fall of Rome
Poem #618, The More Loving One
Poem #677, Villanelle
Poem #708, Five Songs - II
Poem #728, from The Dog Beneath the Skin
Poem #762, Miranda
Poem #868, Partition
Poem #889,  September 1, 1939
Poem #895,  August 1968
Poem #913, In Time of War, XII
Poem #1038, Epitaph on a Tyrant
Poem #1082, Under Which Lyre
Poem #1281, Night Mail
Poem #1298, Miss Gee

There is a detailed biography of Auden attached to Poem #50 above.

Omar Khayyam:
Poem #162, Awake! for Morning in the Bowl of Night
Poem #342, Oh, come with old Khayyam, and leave the Wise
Poem #545, The Moving Finger Writes; and, Having Writ
Poem #654, Think, in this Batter'd Caravanserai
Poem #750, Here with a Loaf of Bread beneath the Bough
Poem #1354, Ah, Love!, Could Thou and I with Fate Conspire

And finally:
Poem #587, Strugnell's Rubaiyat -- Wendy Cope

Miss Gee -- W H Auden

Guest poem submitted by :

(Poem #1298) Miss Gee Let me tell you a little story About Miss Edith Gee; She lived in Clevedon Terrace At number 83. She'd a slight squint in her left eye, Her lips they were thin and small, She had narrow sloping shoulders And she had no bust at all. She'd a velvet hat with trimmings, And a dark grey serge costume; She lived in Clevedon Terrace In a small bed-sitting room. She'd a purple mac for wet days, A green umbrella too to take, She'd a bicycle with shopping basket And a harsh back-pedal break. The Church of Saint Aloysius Was not so very far; She did a lot of knitting, Knitting for the Church Bazaar. Miss Gee looked up at the starlight And said, 'Does anyone care That I live on Clevedon Terrace On one hundred pounds a year?' She dreamed a dream one evening That she was the Queen of France And the Vicar of Saint Aloysius Asked Her Majesty to dance. But a storm blew down the palace, She was biking through a field of corn, And a bull with the face of the Vicar Was charging with lowered horn. She could feel his hot breath behind her, He was going to overtake; And the bicycle went slower and slower Because of that back-pedal break. Summer made the trees a picture, Winter made them a wreck; She bicycled to the evening service With her clothes buttoned up to her neck. She passed by the loving couples, She turned her head away; She passed by the loving couples, And they didn't ask her to stay. Miss Gee sat in the side-aisle, She heard the organ play; And the choir sang so sweetly At the ending of the day, Miss Gee knelt down in the side-aisle, She knelt down on her knees; 'Lead me not into temptation But make me a good girl, please.' The days and nights went by her Like waves round a Cornish wreck; She bicycled down to the doctor With her clothes buttoned up to her neck. She bicycled down to the doctor, And rang the surgery bell; 'O, doctor, I've a pain inside me, And I don't feel very well.' Doctor Thomas looked her over, And then he looked some more; Walked over to his wash-basin, Said,'Why didn't you come before?' Doctor Thomas sat over his dinner, Though his wife was waiting to ring, Rolling his bread into pellets; Said, 'Cancer's a funny thing. 'Nobody knows what the cause is, Though some pretend they do; It's like some hidden assassin Waiting to strike at you. 'Childless women get it. And men when they retire; It's as if there had to be some outlet For their foiled creative fire.' His wife she rang for the servent, Said, 'Dont be so morbid, dear'; He said: 'I saw Miss Gee this evening And she's a goner, I fear.' They took Miss Gee to the hospital, She lay there a total wreck, Lay in the ward for women With her bedclothes right up to her neck. They lay her on the table, The students began to laugh; And Mr. Rose the surgeon He cut Miss Gee in half. Mr. Rose he turned to his students, Said, 'Gentlemen if you please, We seldom see a sarcoma As far advanced as this.' They took her off the table, They wheeled away Miss Gee Down to another department Where they study Anatomy. They hung her from the ceiling Yes, they hung up Miss Gee; And a couple of Oxford Groupers Carefully dissected her knee. -- W H Auden

At last I've found Miss Gee (again)! I first encountered her cycling
along in her purple mac pursued by the Vicar bull in a college textbook.
In her own quiet way Miss Gee spoke volumes for loneliness, repression,
disease and death. Something about this sad, funny, cruel tale struck me
and I was never able to forget the protagonist.

Now many years later after searching in vain on the internet, I decided
to go and look through the Auden collection at the University. Sure
enough there she was in stack 800 something, hiding with her clothes
buttoned up to her neck!

For me the most important facet of the poem is that it never really lets
you sympathise easily with Miss Gee. Instead of creating dark
sentimental lines to make us feel Miss Gee's misery, Auden turns the
tables and invites us to laugh at her. And it is through the cruel humor
of this deceptively simple poem, through our own guilt, and recognition
that we begin to understand Miss Gee's tragedy...

Some things that caught my attention on reading this poem the second
time were the mention of Saint Aloysius, and the 'Cornish Wreck'. So I
went and did some research:

Saint Aloysius: Born in Castiglione, Spain on the 9th of March in 1568.
Aloysius was also deeply faithful and pious. By the age of 9 he had
privately decided on a religious Life, and made a vow of perpetual
virginity. He practiced many devotions and mortifications, and
safeguarded himself at all times from possible temptation. A kidney
disease confined Saint Aloysius to his bed for some time, removed from
the normal full social life of a young man in his position. Bedrest
would be a difficult challenge for any vigourous young man, but Aloysius
resigned himself to it. Far from being bored, or despairing of his
health, he spent his time in prayer and reading the Lives of the Saints.
His resolve to become a Jesuit was formed and firmed at this time. He
served in a hospital during the plague of 1587 in Milan. In time, he
fell victim to the dreaded disease himself, and died at the age of 23.
This young man, patron to all young people, was beatified in 1621, and
declared a saint in 1725.
        --
http://www.domestic-church.com/CONTENT.DCC/19980501/SAINTS/STALOY.HTM )

So it was to this gentle Patron Saint of the young and the sick that
Miss Gee prayed to make her a 'good girl'...

Cornish Wreck: Apparently there are some 3,500 odd wreck sites that have
been accounted for around the dangerous Cornish coastline. Some if not
all of these have become tourist attractions, and thousands of avid
divers dissect the Cornish coast for these wrecks.
        -- [broken link] http://lyonessetrading.co.uk/THE%20SEA/WRECKS.htm

Miss Gee is among the thousands of silent lives that have been destroyed
by the ravages of cancer. Of course she happened to be one of the rare
few who lived beyond her life in the anatomy chambers. After a life time
of repression, buttoning-up, and muffled yearnings (for loving couples
and the Vicar) Miss Gee finally had her pick of Oxford Groupers*
hovering around her wreck!

* Grouper: noun, plural 'groupers' also 'grouper'
Etymology: Portuguese 'garoupa'
Any of numerous fishes (family Serranidae and especially genera
Epinephelus and Mycteroperca) that are typically large solitary
bottom-dwelling fishes of warm seas
        -- www.m-w.com

but also

* a member of the "Oxford Group": This movement, which began around
1908, was originally called "A First Century Christian Fellowship". It
was begun by Frank N. Buchman, a Lutheran minister from Pennsylvania.
The Oxford Group was focused upon changing the world, 'One Person at a
Time'. At Oxford Group 'House Parties', members 'surrendered' on their
knees and gave testimony (or shared) of their deliverance from their
'sin' of alcoholism, smoking, etc. Around 1940 the Oxford Group changed
its name to Moral Re-Armament. This movement still exists today with
offices worldwide.
        -- [broken link] http://members.tripod.com/aainsa/history/founding.html

Night Mail -- W H Auden

Guest poem sent in by Bob Swallow

(Poem #1281) Night Mail This is the Night Mail crossing the border, Bringing the cheque and the postal order, Letters for the rich, letters for the poor, The shop at the corner and the girl next door. Pulling up Beattock, a steady climb: The gradient's against her, but she's on time. Past cotton-grass and moorland boulder Shovelling white steam over her shoulder, Snorting noisily as she passes Silent miles of wind-bent grasses. Birds turn their heads as she approaches, Stare from the bushes at her blank-faced coaches. Sheep-dogs cannot turn her course; They slumber on with paws across. In the farm she passes no one wakes, But a jug in the bedroom gently shakes. Dawn freshens, the climb is done. Down towards Glasgow she descends Towards the steam tugs yelping down the glade of cranes, Towards the fields of apparatus, the furnaces Set on the dark plain like gigantic chessmen. All Scotland waits for her: In the dark glens, beside the pale-green sea lochs Men long for news. Letters of thanks, letters from banks, Letters of joy from the girl and the boy, Receipted bills and invitations To inspect new stock or visit relations, And applications for situations And timid lovers' declarations And gossip, gossip from all the nations, News circumstantial, news financial, Letters with holiday snaps to enlarge in, Letters with faces scrawled in the margin, Letters from uncles, cousins, and aunts, Letters to Scotland from the South of France, Letters of condolence to Highlands and Lowlands Notes from overseas to Hebrides Written on paper of every hue, The pink, the violet, the white and the blue, The chatty, the catty, the boring, adoring, The cold and official and the heart's outpouring, Clever, stupid, short and long, The typed and the printed and the spelt all wrong. Thousands are still asleep Dreaming of terrifying monsters, Or of friendly tea beside the band at Cranston's or Crawford's: Asleep in working Glasgow, asleep in well-set Edinburgh, Asleep in granite Aberdeen, They continue their dreams, And shall wake soon and long for letters, And none will hear the postman's knock Without a quickening of the heart, For who can bear to feel himself forgotten? -- W H Auden

When I need the text of a poem or indeed to check any poetic reference
I generally turn first to "Wondering Minstrels".

The other day I needed a copy of "From a Railway Carriage" by R. L.
Stevenson.  It was for a music lesson where strong rhythms were being
illustrated under the theme of trains. And that poem of course was the
obvious choice.

Naturally I found it on this wonderful site but was rather surprised to find
that another 'railway' poem Was not in your list. This poem "Night Mail" was
written by W. H. Auden for a film advertisement for "British Rail".

The rhythms and rhymes are wonderfully evocative of the railways in the
steam age and bring back to me memories Of railway journeys on which my
sisters and I  worked out phrases to fit the rhythms we could hear as the
wheels clicked over the joins.

I offer this for the collection partly because it has so many memories for
me and partly to ensure that it is Available when I next need to use it.

Bob

Under Which Lyre -- W H Auden

Guest poem submitted by Alan Kornheiser

(Poem #1082) Under Which Lyre A Reactionary Tract for the Times Ares at last has quit the field, The bloodstains on the bushes yield To seeping showers, And in their convalescent state The fractured towns associate With summer flowers. Encamped upon the college plain Raw veterans already train As freshman forces; Instructors with sarcastic tongue Shepherd the battle-weary young Through basic courses. Among bewildering appliances For mastering the arts and sciences They stroll or run, And nerves that steeled themselves to slaughter Are shot to pieces by the shorter Poems of Donne. Professors back from secret missions Resume their proper eruditions, Though some regret it; They liked their dictaphones a lot, T hey met some big wheels, and do not Let you forget it. But Zeus' inscrutable decree Permits the will-to-disagree To be pandemic, Ordains that vaudeville shall preach And every commencement speech Be a polemic. Let Ares doze, that other war Is instantly declared once more ’Twixt those who follow Precocious Hermes all the way And those who without qualms obey Pompous Apollo. Brutal like all Olympic games, Though fought with smiles and Christian names And less dramatic, This dialectic strife between The civil gods is just as mean, And more fanatic. What high immortals do in mirth Is life and death on Middle Earth; Their a-historic Antipathy forever gripes All ages and somatic types, The sophomoric Who face the future’s darkest hints With giggles or with prairie squints As stout as Cortez, And those who like myself turn pale As we approach with ragged sail The fattening forties. The sons of Hermes love to play And only do their best when they Are told they oughtn’t; Apollo’s children never shrink From boring jobs but have to think Their work important. Related by antithesis, A compromise between us is Impossible; Respect perhaps but friendship never: Falstaff the fool confronts forever The prig Prince Hal. If he would leave the self alone, Apollo’s welcome to the throne, Fasces and falcons; He loves to rule, has always done it; The earth would soon, did Hermes run it, Be like the Balkans. But jealous of our god of dreams, His common-sense in secret schemes To rule the heart; Unable to invent the lyre, Creates with simulated fire Official art. And when he occupies a college, Truth is replaced by Useful Knowledge; He pays particular Attention to Commercial Thought, Public Relations, Hygiene, Sport, In his curricula. Athletic, extrovert and crude, For him, to work in solitude Is the offence, The goal a populous Nirvana: His shield bears this device: Mens sana Qui mal y pense. Today his arms, we must confess, From Right to Left have met success, His banners wave From Yale to Princeton, and the news From Broadway to the Book Reviews Is very grave. His radio Homers all day long In over-Whitmanated song That does not scan, With adjectives laid end to end, Extol the doughnut and commend The Common Man. His, too, each homely lyric thing On sport or spousal love or spring Or dogs or dusters, Invented by some court-house bard For recitation by the yard In filibusters. To him ascend the prize orations And sets of fugal variations On some folk-ballad, While dietitians sacrifice A glass of prune-juice or a nice Marsh-mallow salad. Charged with his compound of sensational Sex plus some undenominational Religious matter, Enormous novels by co-eds Rain down on our defenceless heads Till our teeth chatter. In fake Hermetic uniforms Behind our battle-line, in swarms That keep alighting, His existentialists declare That they are in complete despair, Yet go on writing. No matter; He shall be defied; White Aphrodite is on our side: What though his threat To organize us grow more critical? Zeus willing, we, the unpolitical, Shall beat him yet. Lone scholars, sniping from the walls Of learned periodicals, Our facts defend, Our intellectual marines, Landing in little magazines Capture a trend. By night our student Underground At cocktail parties whisper round From ear to ear; Fat figures in the public eye Collapse next morning, ambushed by Some witty sneer. In our morale must lie our strength: So, that we may behold at length Routed Apollo’s Battalions melt away like fog, Keep well the Hermetic Decalogue, Which runs as follows:— Thou shalt not do as the dean pleases, Thou shalt not write thy doctor’s thesis On education, Thou shalt not worship projects nor Shalt thou or thine bow down before Administration. Thou shalt not answer questionnaires Or quizzes upon World-Affairs, Nor with compliance Take any test. Thou shalt not sit With statisticians nor commit A social science. Thou shalt not be on friendly terms With guys in advertising firms, Nor speak with such As read the Bible for its prose, Nor, above all, make love to those Who wash too much. Thou shalt not live within thy means Nor on plain water and raw greens. If thou must choose Between the chances, choose the odd; Read The New Yorker, trust in God; And take short views. -- W H Auden

 (Phi Beta Kappa Poem, Harvard, 1946)

Auden had an interesting war and an interesting peace. Ignoring the
obvious--- the GIs were back on campus after the war, of course, and the
contrast between who they were and where they'd been with what they had to
study must have tickeled Auden no end---let us not forget that Auden had
made the ultimate sacrifice to fight the Nazis...he'd gotten married, to
help a refugee out.  ("What else are buggers for?" he had asked.)

The poem is the lesser Auden, the entertaining Auden, with the perfectly
structured rhyme and rhythm scheme hiding wonderfully barbed lines. To read
it is to adore it, and copies of its final lines decorate graduate student
offices the breadth of the country. But read it again...the irony is deep.
The blood is yet fresh.  And do not the opening lines remind you of the
opening lines of Richard III?

-Alan

[Martin adds]

This also reminds me strongly of Auden's "The Fall of Rome" (Poem #494), both
in mood and in rhythm (Sunil Iyengar, who submitted the latter poem, seems to
agree - see his commentary).

Epitaph on a tyrant -- W H Auden

Guest poem submitted by Aseem Kaul:

(Poem #1038) Epitaph on a tyrant Perfection, of a kind, was what he was after And the poetry he invented was easy to understand; He knew human folly like the back of his hand, And was greatly interested in armies and fleets; When he laughed, respectable senators burst with laughter, And when he cried the little children died in the streets. -- W H Auden

Perfection is the word. In six simple lines, Auden paints a portrait of a
tyrant that is both human and absolute. Auden's tyrant is not a political
machine - no mention is made of his military aspirations or his place in
history. Instead we have a tyrant who is frightening precisely because he is
so ordinary - he laughs, he cries, he seeks perfection, indulges his
interests. He is not even the motive force behind the destruction he causes
- he means no harm to the children, it's just that the momentum of his tears
causes them to be destroyed.

What makes tyranny so terrifying is the idea that the fate of an entire
country and all its people is governed by the magnified yet frail ego of a
single individual. And that's exactly what this poem captures.

Aseem.

[Minstrels Links]

Wystan Hugh Auden:
Poem #50, In Memory of W. B. Yeats
Poem #68, Musee des Beaux Arts
Poem #256, Funeral Blues
Poem #307, Lay your sleeping head, my love
Poem #371, O What Is That Sound
Poem #386, The Unknown Citizen
Poem #427, The Two
Poem #491, Roman Wall Blues
Poem #494, The Fall of Rome
Poem #618, The More Loving One
Poem #677, Villanelle
Poem #708, Five Songs - II
Poem #728, from The Dog Beneath the Skin
Poem #762, Miranda
Poem #868, Partition
Poem #889, September 1, 1939
Poem #895, August 1968
Poem #913, In Time of War, XII

In Time of War, XII -- W H Auden

Guest poem submitted by J. Goard:

(Poem #913) In Time of War, XII And the age ended, and the last deliverer died. In bed, grown idle and unhappy; they were safe: The sudden shadow of the giant's enormous calf Would fall no more at dusk across the lawn outside. They slept in peace: in marshes here and there no doubt A sterile dragon lingered to a natural death, But in a year the spoor had vanished from the heath; The kobold's knocking in the mountain petered out. Only the sculptors and the poets were half sad, And the pert retinue from the magician's house Grumbled and went elsewhere. The vanished powers were glad To be invisible and free: without remorse Struck down the sons who strayed their course, And ravished the daughters, and drove the fathers mad. -- W H Auden

The relevance of this poem to today's climate hardly needs mention, although
I suspect that, depending upon one's own viewpoint, it could be interpreted
in different ways.  This is the final sonnet from "In Time of War", looking
forward to an extended period of peace in Europe after WWII, not with
celebration but with warning.  The metaphor of ancient mythical monsters
reinforces our feeling that this cycle has been going since the beginning of
time.

The alexandrine (iambic hexameter) isn't used very often these days, and in
fact it's even difficult to find decent examples from the past.  As Auden's
sonnet shows, however, the alexadrine isn't merely a curiosity, but a
vibrant form.  In my opinion, very few lines of pentameter flow as smoothly
and somberly as the second quatrain does here.  Most interesting is the
unexpected shift in the final two lines, to tetrameter and pentameter. When
I read this out loud, my feeling is a swift violence in line 13 and then,
reinforcing the theme, a feeling that the pace of life has changed. About as
good an example as you'll find of form matching content.

--JG--

[Minstrels Links]

W. H. Auden:
Poem #50, In Memory of W. B. Yeats
Poem #68, Musee des Beaux Arts
Poem #256, Funeral Blues
Poem #307, Lay your sleeping head, my love
Poem #371, O What Is That Sound
Poem #386, The Unknown Citizen
Poem #427, The Two
Poem #491, Roman Wall Blues
Poem #494, The Fall of Rome
Poem #618, The More Loving One
Poem #677, Villanelle
Poem #708, Five Songs - II
Poem #728, from The Dog Beneath the Skin
Poem #762, Miranda
Poem #868, Partition
Poem #889, September 1, 1939
Poem #895, August 1968

August 1968 -- W H Auden

Guest poem sent in by Zenobia Driver

(Poem #895) August 1968 The Ogre does what ogres can, Deeds quite impossible for Man, But one prize is beyond his reach: The Ogre cannot master speech. About a subjugated plain, Among it's desperate and slain, The Ogre stalks with hands on hips, While drivel gushes from his lips. -- W H Auden

This poem by Auden is one of the nicest put-downs I have read. I'd love to
say this to a few people, except that they wouldn't even understand what I
was saying.

-Zenobia

Martin adds:

The poem's title refers to the Communist invasion of Czechoslovakia in
August 1968, to quash Dubcek's nascent series of reforms. See
http://www.rferl.org/nca/features/1998/08/F.RUhtml for more
background on the invasion. Auden's Ogre was a (fairly transparent) symbol
of Stalin and his forces, but, as Zenobia observes, the type is common even
today.

September 1, 1939 -- W H Auden

Guest poem sent in by John Burke

(Poem #889) September 1, 1939 I sit in one of the dives On Fifty-second street Uncertain and afraid As the clever hopes expire Of a low dishonest decade: Waves of anger and fear Circulate over the bright and darkened lands of the earth, Obsessing our private lives; The unmentionable odour of death Offends the September night. Accurate scholarship can unearth the whole offence From Luther until now That has driven a culture mad, Find what occurred at Linz, What huge imago made A psychopathic god: I and the public know What all schoolchildren learn, Those to whom evil is done Do evil in return. Exiled Thucydides knew All that a speech can say About Democracy, And what dictators do, The elderly rubbish they talk To an apathetic grave; Analysed all in his book, The enlightenment driven away, The habit-forming pain, Mismanagement and grief: We must suffer them all again. Into this neutral air Where blind skyscrapers use Their full height to proclaim The strength of Collective Man, Each language pours its vain Competitive excuse: But who can live for long In an euphoric dream; Out of the mirror they stare, Imperialism¹s face And the international wrong. Faces along the bar Cling to their average day: The lights must never go out, The music must always play, All the conventions conspire To make this fort assume The furniture of home; Lest we should see where we are, Lost in a haunted wood, Children afraid of the night who have never been happy or good. The windiest militant trash Important Persons shout Is not so crude as our wish: What mad Nijinsky wrote About Diaghilev Is true of the normal heart; For the error bred in the bone Of each woman and each man Craves what it cannot have, Not universal love But to be loved alone. From the conservative dark Into the ethical life The dense commuters come, Repeating their morning vow, "I will be true to the wife. I'll concentrate more on my work," And helpless governors wake To resume their compulsory game: Who can release them now, Who can reach the deaf, Who can speak for the dumb? All I have is a voice To undo the folded lie, The romantic lie in the brain Of the sensual man-in-the-street And the lie of Authority Whose buildings grope the sky: There is no such thing as the State And no one exists alone; Hunger allows no choice To the citizen or the police; We must love one another or die. Defenceless under the night Our world in stupor lies; Yet, dotted everywhere, Ironic points of light Flash out wherever the Just Exchange their messages; May I, composed like them Of Eros and of dust, Beleaguered by the same Negation and despair, Show an affirming flame. -- W H Auden

The poem (which has long been my favorite in English) speaks for itself. I
might just note that in fact, as Auden himself pointed out some years later,
we must love one another *and* die; it's a little light-minded to suppose
that somehow love conquers mortality. It doesn't, though it can make the
knowledge of mortality bearable.

-- jvb

[Martin adds: "We must love one another and die" has gone straight onto my
list of favourite quotations.]

Partition -- W H Auden

A poem for India's indepedence day, submitted by Vikram Doctor:

(Poem #868) Partition Unbiased at least he was when he arrived on his mission, Having never set eyes on the land he was called to partition Between two peoples fanatically at odds, With their different diets and incompatible gods. "Time," they had briefed him in London, "is short. It's too late For mutual reconciliation or rational debate: The only solution now lies in separation. The Viceroy thinks, as you will see from his letter, That the less you are seen in his company the better, So we've arranged to provide you with other accommodation. We can give you four judges, two Moslem and two Hindu, To consult with, but the final decision must rest with you." Shut up in a lonely mansion, with police night and day Patrolling the gardens to keep the assassins away, He got down to work, to the task of settling the fate Of millions. The maps at his disposal were out of date And the Census Returns almost certainly incorrect, But there was no time to check them, no time to inspect Contested areas. The weather was frightfully hot, And a bout of dysentery kept him constantly on the trot, But in seven weeks it was done, the frontiers decided, A continent for better or worse divided. The next day he sailed for England, where he could quickly forget The case, as a good lawyer must. Return he would not, Afraid, as he told his Club, that he might get shot. -- W H Auden

 From the Collected Poems, 1976, p. 604, poem dated May 1966.

A good example of how while poets are normally thought of as estranged from
daily life, they can comment on news events in illuminating ways. This poem
says as much or more about the impossible nature of Radcliffe's job that any
thing I've read on the subject. The only thing perhaps to add in Radcliffe's
defence is that he refused the fee he was offered for his services.

Vikram.

Miranda -- W H Auden

Guest poem submitted by Laura Harding:

(Poem #762) Miranda My dear one is mine as mirrors are lonely, As the poor and sad are real to the good king, And the high green hill sits always by the sea. Up jumped the Black Man behind the elder tree, Turned a somersault and ran away waving; My Dear One is mine as mirrors are lonely. The Witch gave a squawk; her venomous body Melted into light as water leaves a spring, And the high green hill sits always by the sea. At his crossroads, too, the Ancient prayed for me, Down his wasted cheeks tears of joy were running: My dear one is mine as mirrors are lonely. He kissed me awake, and no one was sorry; The sun shone on sails, eyes, pebbles, anything, And the high green hill sits always by the sea. So to remember our changing garden, we Are linked as children in a circle dancing: My dear one is mine as mirrors are lonely, And the high, green hill sits always by the sea. -- W H Auden

This is Miranda's one speaking part in 'The Sea and the Mirror', Auden's
long, careful, mostly prose gambit with the Faust-theme, a fantasia on
Shakespeare's 'Tempest'. [The 'sea' and the 'mirror' appear through this
whole work in various casts; most pointedly, the sea is the vast and
dangerous real inner or outer life, the mirror, art's solipsistic construct.
Come to think of it, seas and mirrors don't appear outright anywhere in the
work except in the above poem, which figures at just about the halfway
point... for more on this awesome play, please read it... ]

To my mind this first line is enough to carry whatever the poet might want
to put in a dozen more; he's gone further, though, and there's a rich little
surprise in every verse. I only have some trouble with the final stanza - it
seems a bit vacuous. On the other hand, maybe this is intentional: in
Miranda's lucky state, anything goes - and I love her all the more for it.

Laura.

from The Dog Beneath The Skin -- W H Auden

Guest poem sent in by Vikram Doctor

(Poem #728) from The Dog Beneath The Skin Now through night's caressing grip Earth and all her oceans slip, Capes of China slide away From her fingers into day And the Americas incline Coasts towards her shadow line. Now the ragged vagrants creep Into crooked holes to sleep: Just and unjust, worst and best, Change their places as they rest: Awkward lovers lie in fields Where disdainful beauty yields: While the splendid and the proud Naked stand before the crowd And the losing gambler gains And the beggar entertains: May sleep's healing power extend Through these hours to our friend. Unpursued by hostile force, Traction engine, bull or horse Or revolting succubus; Calmly till the morning break Let him lie, then gently wake. -- W H Auden

Another Auden poem, another lullaby. This shows Auden's ability with the
simplest of poems - just a matchless word picture of our 'swiftly tilting
planet' (have we had Aiken's Senlin poem?), infused with that unique feeling
of tenderness and protectiveness that anyone who has watched someone one
loves sleeping will know.

Vikram

Five Songs - II -- W H Auden

Guest poem sent in by L. Archer

(Poem #708) Five Songs - II That night when joy began Our narrowest veins to flush, We waited for the flash Of morning's levelled gun. But morning let us pass, And day by day relief Outgrows his nervous laugh, Grown credulous of peace, As mile by mile is seen No trespasser's reproach, And love's best glasses reach No fields but are his own. -- W H Auden

        (November 1931)

I don't think a person has to have been through the experience of a soldier
to appreciate this one.

To me, this poem encapsulates the feeling of apprehension which so often is
just groundless worry over little or nothing.  Often, when the situation has
passed, you wonder why you were so concerned.

My fave line is "As mile by mile is seen, No trespasser's reproach."  How
many of us wait for the hammer to fall, only to find it never does?

Good link:  [broken link] http://www.audensociety.org/

Villanelle -- W H Auden

(Poem #677) Villanelle Time will say nothing but I told you so, Time only knows the price we have to pay; If I could tell you I would let you know. If we should weep when clowns put on their show, If we should stumble when musicians play, Time will say nothing but I told you so. There are no fortunes to be told, although, Because I love you more than I can say, If I could tell you I would let you know. The winds must come from somewhere when they blow, There must be reasons why the leaves decay; Time will say nothing but I told you so. Perhaps the roses really want to grow, The vision seriously intends to stay; If I could tell you I would let you know. Suppose the lions all get up and go, And all the brooks and soldiers run away? Will time say nothing but I told you so? If I could tell you I would let you know. -- W H Auden

[On Auden]

As both Martin and I have commented in the past, one of the pleasures of
Minstrelsy is the discovery of new poems, many of which we'd never have
chanced upon had it not been for this mailing list. Rather less common (but
no less thrilling) is the reappraisal of well-known names, the sudden
realization that you've come to like poets you didn't care for in previous
years.

W. H. Auden tops my list of the latter. For the longest time I was less than
impressed by his work: I appreciated his obvious technical brilliance and
the width of his stylistic experiments, but his actual verse left me a bit
cold.

An abundance of guest submissions changed that, though. Perhaps Auden's art
takes time to appreciate, perhaps I just hadn't read the 'right' poems prior
to the Minstrels [1], perhaps my own tastes in poetry have changed in the
last year or two... for whatever reason, I found myself replacing disregard
with tolerance, tolerance with a grudging respect, respect with admiration,
and (finally!) admiration with a whole-hearted enjoyment of his work.

[1] For make no mistake, Auden's poetic output was immense, and much of it
is decidedly uneven.

[On Today's Poem]

At first glance, Auden's villanelle seems to echo familiar Shakespearean
themes: "Time triumphs over Flesh, and Love over all" [2]. But all is not as
simple as it seems. In a particularly modernist twist to the poem, Time
continues to be the malicious tyrant of old, but the triumph of Love is no
longer inevitable [3]. Instead, it's an object to be gained through
struggle. And this struggle is made incalculably harder by the problem of
communication, a problem that lies at the heart of all 20th century art.

Deep Philosophical Questions are all very well; the magic of the poem,
though, lies in the details - the roses and clowns, lions and soldiers. I
confess I can't make sense of every single reference Auden uses (for
example, how can _brooks_ run away?), but the overall effect is brilliant -
it captures the ideas of evanescence and loss and yes, love, remarkably
well.

[2] See Martin's commentary on Sonnet XXXIII, from which the above line is
taken: poem #219

[3] See Cristina Gazzieri's wonderful essay on the crisis of love poetry in
the 20th century, part of her commentary on Yeats' "Solomon and the Witch",
archived at   poem #407

[On Villanelles]

Several modern poets have written villanelles; interestingly, they all seem
to be on the subject of time and loss. Check out the following works in the
Minstrels Archive, http://www.cs.rice.edu/~ssiyer/minstrels/:

Dylan Thomas, "Do Not Go Gentle Into That Good Night", Poem #38
William Empson, "Missing Dates", Poem #202
Elizabeth Bishop, "One Art", Poem #639

The first of the above has an explanatory note on the form, and (as a bonus)
a self-referential villanelle by Peter Schaeffer appended.

[Moreover]

A version of the poem starting with the line "Time _can_ say nothing but I
told you so" seems to be floating around the Internet. Needless to say, the
connotations are very different indeed...

thomas.