Tag Archives: W.H. Auden

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“The Preparations,” by W. H. Auden

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“The Preparations,” by W. H. Auden (Part II of “The Quest”)

All had been ordered weeks before the start
From the best firms at such work: instruments
To take the measure of all queer events,
And drugs to move the bowels or the heart.

A watch, of course, to watch impatience fly,
Lamps for the dark and shades against the sun;
Foreboding, too, insisted on a gun,
And coloured beads to soothe a savage eye.

In theory they were sound on Expectation,
Had there been situations to be in;
Unluckily they were their situation:

One should not give a poisoner medicine,
A conjurer fine apparatus, nor
A rifle to a melancholic bore.

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“The Door,” by W.H. Auden

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“The Door,” by W.H. Auden (Part I of “The Quest”)

Out of it steps our future, through this door
Enigmas, executioners and rules,
Her Majesty in a bad temper or
A red-nosed Fool who makes a fool of fools.

Great persons eye it in the twilight for
A past it might so carelessly let in,
A widow with a missionary grin,
The foaming inundation at a roar.

We pile our all against it when afraid,
And beat upon its panels when we die:
By happening to be open once, it made

Enormous Alice see a wonderland
That waited for her in the sunshine and,
Simply by being tiny, made her cry.

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Stephen King and W. H. Auden inspired by the same Jungian archetype?!?!

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Well, probably not … as Auden’s manmade “Tower” does sound different than King’s nexus of all realities.  Nor does “The Quest,” the set of poems from which this is selected, parallel Roland’s journey.

Still, it’s a terrific poem.  

“The Tower,” by W. H. Auden

This is an architecture for the old;
Thus heaven was attacked by the afraid,
So once, unconsciously, a virgin made
Her maidenhead conspicuous to a god.

Here on dark nights while worlds of triumph sleep
Lost Love in abstract speculation burns,
And exiled Will to politics returns
In epic verse that makes its traitors weep.

Yet many come to wish their tower a well;
For those who dread to drown, of thirst may die,
Those who see all become invisible:

Here great magicians, caught in their own spell,
Long for a natural climate as they sigh
“Beware of Magic” to the passer-by.

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People in England are reading my mind!

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Talk about synchronicity.  I was just chatting with my best friend last night — I read to her W. H. Auden’s “The Tower,” (part of “The Quest”), and then we were talking about books on tape. I told her I wanted to hear Tom Hiddleston read something, because his voice is my favorite.

Then I find this linked from the Dagda Publishing website by its (apparently telepathic) editors:

“As I Walked Out One Evening” was the first Auden poem I ever read.

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MIDNIGHT AUDEN MAKES A BIRTHDAY PERFECT.

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Ringin’ it in with the best of the Brits:

“O Where Are You Going,” by W.H. Auden

“O where are you going?” said reader to rider,

“That valley is fatal when furnaces burn,
Yonder’s the midden whose odors 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.

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“The Fall of Rome,” by W. H. Auden

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“The Fall of Rome,” by W. H. Auden

The piers are pummelled by the waves;
   In a lonely field the rain
   Lashes an abandoned train;
   Outlaws fill the mountain caves.

   Fantastic grow the evening gowns;
   Agents of the Fisc pursue
   Absconding tax defaulters through
   The sewers of provincial towns.

   Private rites of magic send
   The temple prostitutes to sleep;
   All the literati keep
   An imaginary friend.

   Cerebretonic Cato may
   Extol the Ancient Disciplines,
   But the muscle-bound Marines
   Mutiny for food and pay.

   Caesar’s double-bed is warm
   As an unimportant clerk
   Writes I DO NOT LIKE MY WORK
   On a pink official form.

   Unendowed with wealth or pity,
   Little birds with scarlet legs,
   Sitting on their speckled eggs,
   Eye each flu-infected city.

   Altogether elsewhere, vast
   Herds of reindeer move across
   Miles and miles of golden moss,
   Silently and very fast.  

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“The Ponds of Apperception”

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XIX. The Waters

by W. H. Auden

Poet, oracle, and wit
Like unsuccessful anglers by
The ponds of apperception sit,
Baiting with the wrong request
The vectors of their interest,
At nightfall tell the angler’s lie.

With time in tempest everywhere,
To rafts of frail assumption cling
The saintly and the insincere;
Enraged phenomena bear down
In overwhelming waves to drown
Both sufferer and suffering.

The waters long to hear our question put
Which would release their longed-for answer, but.

 

— thanks to Poemhunter.com for the text

 

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“That gap is the grave where the tall return.” (W.H. Auden does Ray Bradbury.)

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Auden would have made a fine horror writer.  He would have.

Enjoy the frightening imagery of “O Where Are You Going?”

I am not sure, but I believe that this is part of a set of poems entitled “The Adventurers?”

 

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 odors 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.

 

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I recited countless prayers in Catholic school.

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And do you want to know which words make this empiricist come closest to feeling “spiritual?”

W.H. Auden’s “September 1, 1939.”  Auden’s work reassures the heart and tempts the intellect.   He was the very “affirming flame” he described so capably, as others doubtlessly are who were inspired by the piece.

If God exists, then evidence for Him might best be found in poetry: mankind’s capacity for depth and language’s capacity for beauty.

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“Invocation To Ariel” again, because I said so.

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Yes, I know I ran this poem here on the blog not too long ago.  I’m running it again — call it an encore.

If you don’t like it, go read Cracked.com.  Actually … you SHOULD be reading Cracked.com, because that site is hilarious.  If you’re a flick nerd, as I am, check out the “Television & Movies” tab.

Anyway, here is the above mentioned section of “W. H. Auden’s “The Sea and the Mirror.”

Invocation To Ariel

Sing, Ariel, sing,
Sweetly, dangerously,
Out of the sour
And shiftless water,
Lucidly out
Of the dozing tree,
Entrancing, rebuking
The raging heart
With a smoother song
Than this rough world,
Unfeeling God.
 
O brilliantly, lightly,
Of separation, 
Of bodies and death,
Unanxious one, sing
To man, meaning me,
As now, meaning always,
In love or out,
Whatever that mean,
Trembling he takes
The silent passage
Into discomfort.