September 1, 2020

Excerpt from September 1, 1939 [Filed under: Auden, W.H.]

A poem from the beginning of World War II that is not irrelevant today:

Excerpt from September 1, 1939

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.

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.

The full poem, which is still under copyright, may be read at

October 3, 2018

Thalia [Filed under: Aldrich, Thomas Bailey]



I say it under the rose—
  oh, thanks!—yes, under the laurel,
We part lovers, not foes;
  we are not going to quarrel.

We have too long been friends
  on foot and in gilded coaches,
Now that the whole thing ends,
  to spoil our kiss with reproaches.

I leave you; my soul is wrung;
  I pause, look back from the portal—
Ah, I no more am young,
  and you, child, you are immortal!

Mine is the glacier’s way,
  yours is the blossom’s weather—
When were December and May
  known to be happy together?

Before my kisses grow tame,
  before my moodiness grieve you,
While yet my heart is flame,
  and I all lover, I leave you.

So, in the coming time,
  when you count the rich years over,
Think of me in my prime,
  and not as a white-haired lover.

Fretful, pierced with regret,
  the wraith of a dead Desire
Thrumming a cracked spinet
  by a slowly dying fire.

When, at last, I am cold—
  years hence, if the gods so will it—
Say, “He was true as gold,”
  and wear a rose in your fillet!

Others, tender as I,
  will come and sue for caresses,
Woo you, win you, and die—
  mind you, a rose in your tresses!

Some Melpomene woo,
  some hold Clio the nearest;
You, sweet Comedy—you
  were ever sweetest and dearest!

Nay, it is time to go—
  when writing your tragic sister
Say to that child of woe
  how sorry I was I missed her.

Really, I cannot stay,
  though “parting is such sweet sorrow” …
Perhaps I will, on my way
  down-town, look in to-morrow!

December 26, 2017

Swinburne on Swinburne [Filed under: General Discussion.Swinburne, Algernon Charles]

Swinburne has long been my favorite poet, and on winter nights like tonight, I love to curl up with a small glass of some choice intoxicating liquor and read some intoxicating Swinburne verse. But I am aware that there are some who do not think, as I do, that Swinburne was the greatest English poet of the 19th century. Swinburne himself was also aware of his critics, and had a singular response to them: he outdid them. His “Poeta Loquitur” is hard to find on the internet (and strangely, it is one of a handful of poems that was omitted from my copy of his “complete” works), so I have had to piece this version together from various snippets—it may well not be entirely accurate. Still, I want to share with the world this lovely bit of Swinburne’s self-criticism, warts and all.

Poeta Loquitur

If a person conceives an opinion
  That my verses are stuff that will wash,
Or my Muse has one plume on her pinion,
  That person’s opinion is bosh.
My philosophy, politics, free-thought!
  Are worth not three skips of a flea,
And the emptiest of thoughts that can be thought
  Are mine on the sea.

In a maze of monotonous murmur
  Where reason roves ruined by rhyme,
In a voice neither graver nor firmer
  Than the bells on a fool’s cap chime,
A partly pretentiously pensive,
  With a Muse that deserves to be skinned,
Makes language and metre offensive
  With rhymes on the wind.

A perennial procession of phrases
  Pranked primly, though pruriently prime,
Precipitates preaching on praises
  In a ruffianly riot of rhyme
Through the pressure of print on my pages:
  But reckless the reader must be
Who imagines me one of the sages
  That steer through Time’s sea.

Mad mixtures of Frenchified offal
  With insults to Christendom’s creed,
Blind blasphemy, schoolboylike scoff, all
  These blazon me blockhead indeed.
I conceive myself obviously some one
  Whose audience will never be thinned,
But the pupil must needs be a rum one
  Whose teacher is wind.

In my poems, with ravishing rapture
  Storm strikes me and strokes me and stings:
But I’m scarcely the bird you might capture
  Out of doors in the thick of such things.
I prefer to be well out of harm’s way
  When tempest makes tremble the tree,
And the wind with armipotent arm-sway
  Makes soap of the sea.

Hanging hard on the rent rags of others,
  Who before me did better, I try
To believe them my sisters and brothers,
  Though I know what a low lot am I.
The mere sight of a church sets me yelping
  Like a boy that at football is shinned!
But the cause must indeed be past helping
  Whose gospel is wind!

All the pale past’s red record of history
  Is dusty with damnable deeds;
But the future’s mild motherly mystery
  Peers pure of all crowns and all creeds.
Truth dawns on time’s resonant ruin,
  Frank, fulminant, fragrant and free
And apparently this is the doing
  Of wind on the sea.

Fame flutters in front of pretension
  Whose flagstaff is flagrantly fine
And it cannot be needful to mention
  That such beyond question is mine.
Some singers indulging in curses,
  Though sinful, have splendidly sinned:
But my would-be maleficent verses
  Are nothing but wind.

Interestingly, I did find one other person who appears to have appreciated Swinburne’s work almost as much as I do: a book reviewer for New Zealand’s Otago Daily Times writing under the name “Constant Reader” (presumably notDorothy Parker). Here is a review of a pocket volume of Swinburne’s verse that this Constant Reader wrote in 1918.

October 14, 2017

My November Guest [Filed under: Frost, Robert]

My November Guest

MY Sorrow, when she’s here with me,
  Thinks these dark days of autumn rain
Are beautiful as days can be;
She loves the bare, the withered tree;
  She walks the sodden pasture lane.

Her pleasure will not let me stay.
  She talks and I am fain to list:
She’s glad the birds are gone away,
She’s glad her simple worsted gray
  Is silver now with clinging mist.

The desolate, deserted trees,
  The faded earth, the heavy sky,
The beauties she so truly sees,
She thinks I have no eye for these,
  And vexes me for reason why.

Not yesterday I learned to know
  The love of bare November days
Before the coming of the snow,
But it were vain to tell her so,
  And they are better for her praise.

As a treat, here’s a recording of Robert Frost reading My November Guest.

February 5, 2017

The Shot Heard Round the World [Filed under: Emerson, Ralph Waldo]

Concord Hymn

Sung at the Completion of the Battle Monument, July 4, 1837

By the rude bridge that arched the flood,
  Their flag to April’s breeze unfurled,
Here once the embattled farmers stood,
  And fired the shot heard round the world.

The foe long since in silence slept;
  Alike the conqueror silent sleeps;
And Time the ruined bridge has swept
  Down the dark stream which seaward creeps.

On this green bank, by this soft stream,
  We set to-day a votive stone;
That memory may their deed redeem,
  When, like our sires, our sons are gone.

Spirit, that made those heroes dare,
  To die, and leave their children free,
Bid Time and Nature gently spare
  The shaft we raise to them and thee.

A possibly accidental shot, fired without authority or maybe even intent, ignited a powder keg of tension and set off an explosion the reverberations of which are still felt today. How accidental human history is! A cursory review of humankind’s most important events disproves Hegelian dialectics outright. One must hope we have not left too many other powder kegs exposed to the sparks thrown off by everyday affairs, particularly in times (like the present) when we walk swinging swords among people made of flint.