On 7 June 2017 I posted a short series called "Epigrams." I was hoping to write more but decided I wasn't very good at them. You can read the series here.
--------------
(After rereading “W. H. Auden, A Biography” by Humphrey Carpenter)
Faith without dogma
Is soda water sans gas;
Vague uplift, stale buns.
All should be pleasant, but who,
Come shove, will die for the Lord?
----------
“Intensity of
Attention:” hushed at his desk,
Daily the poet
Or statesman strive: but what if
The tyrant likewise? Watch out!
----------
“Spain” was prescriptive
Nonsense: poetry does not
Insist what to do;
Though by quizzing good and bad
It lauds virtue, which then prompts.
----------
Inner order, not
Outward look, was key; therefore
Scruff clothes, hair – so what?
But late life, his inner self
Froze: now parody, he died.
----------
John Pudney made note:
The Thirties Auden, Britten,
Lived in a world which
“Closed certain doors to strangers:”
Oh, would that were still the case!
----------
Men kill, cheat, rape, fight:
That’s accident not essence
Claim some. No, man fell,
Evil’s the fruit: he’ll fester
Till he say, “Maranatha.”
----------
In a Nutshell
There are three stages
(Thus Kierkegaard): aesthetic –
Swoon, my precious words!
Ethical – NYT types
Rainbow dress their only child;
Religious – those two
Having failed. Hopeless, helpless,
Man must leap: if not,
Despair will kill; guilt-engulfed,
Reason falls: faith must suffice.
Surrendered thus, man
Chooses himself (indeed yes!)
Oned with the Fontal
Of self – true autonomy
That’s fulfilled in dependence.
-----------
That sneaked slice of cake,
That thug flitching his crime-mate,
The jobsworth quibbling:
All by their nay-deeds illume
The Way, the strait gate they’ll miss.
----------
Magnate, nabob, toff,
Jewelled, wined, cigars like cudgels,
Even they (more so
Perhaps) know life’s a mud-fight,
Its goods slip-handed like eels.
----------
In an online world
Surfing for self’s approvings,
He ersatzed a brand:
Celebed, pulp-washing his “pitch,”
He monetized his each word.
----------
Globalled, we’re one world,
(Lick it up!), deemed to bring joy;
In fact, discouraged
From preferring what’s local,
We’re snappish, all are lonely.
----------
Well, art is small beer;
At end, what’s necessary
Is making one’s crust,
Giving not taking, and then –
Hard this! – loving one’s neighbour.
----------
The poet’s duty
Is to caress the language,
And that’s done by rules:
Poets are craftsmen, builders,
Not “free verse” ragbag merchants.
----------
“The Lord be with you,”
“And very much with you too.”
Please! Worship is cult,
Holy awe at what’s Other:
It’s Truth, not self-lauding hugs.
----------
Words weighed in the scale:
Meaning, quantity, rhythm –
Then sentence and whole:
That’s the poet’s task: it grows
From rigorous schooling, stripes!
====================
© June-July 2023
--------------
(After rereading “W. H. Auden, A Biography” by Humphrey Carpenter)
Faith without dogma
Is soda water sans gas;
Vague uplift, stale buns.
All should be pleasant, but who,
Come shove, will die for the Lord?
----------
“Intensity of
Attention:” hushed at his desk,
Daily the poet
Or statesman strive: but what if
The tyrant likewise? Watch out!
----------
“Spain” was prescriptive
Nonsense: poetry does not
Insist what to do;
Though by quizzing good and bad
It lauds virtue, which then prompts.
----------
Inner order, not
Outward look, was key; therefore
Scruff clothes, hair – so what?
But late life, his inner self
Froze: now parody, he died.
----------
John Pudney made note:
The Thirties Auden, Britten,
Lived in a world which
“Closed certain doors to strangers:”
Oh, would that were still the case!
----------
Men kill, cheat, rape, fight:
That’s accident not essence
Claim some. No, man fell,
Evil’s the fruit: he’ll fester
Till he say, “Maranatha.”
----------
In a Nutshell
There are three stages
(Thus Kierkegaard): aesthetic –
Swoon, my precious words!
Ethical – NYT types
Rainbow dress their only child;
Religious – those two
Having failed. Hopeless, helpless,
Man must leap: if not,
Despair will kill; guilt-engulfed,
Reason falls: faith must suffice.
Surrendered thus, man
Chooses himself (indeed yes!)
Oned with the Fontal
Of self – true autonomy
That’s fulfilled in dependence.
-----------
That sneaked slice of cake,
That thug flitching his crime-mate,
The jobsworth quibbling:
All by their nay-deeds illume
The Way, the strait gate they’ll miss.
----------
Magnate, nabob, toff,
Jewelled, wined, cigars like cudgels,
Even they (more so
Perhaps) know life’s a mud-fight,
Its goods slip-handed like eels.
----------
In an online world
Surfing for self’s approvings,
He ersatzed a brand:
Celebed, pulp-washing his “pitch,”
He monetized his each word.
----------
Globalled, we’re one world,
(Lick it up!), deemed to bring joy;
In fact, discouraged
From preferring what’s local,
We’re snappish, all are lonely.
----------
Well, art is small beer;
At end, what’s necessary
Is making one’s crust,
Giving not taking, and then –
Hard this! – loving one’s neighbour.
----------
The poet’s duty
Is to caress the language,
And that’s done by rules:
Poets are craftsmen, builders,
Not “free verse” ragbag merchants.
----------
“The Lord be with you,”
“And very much with you too.”
Please! Worship is cult,
Holy awe at what’s Other:
It’s Truth, not self-lauding hugs.
----------
Words weighed in the scale:
Meaning, quantity, rhythm –
Then sentence and whole:
That’s the poet’s task: it grows
From rigorous schooling, stripes!
====================
© June-July 2023
