Archives: Poems

1 
Look! It was no fault of mine. Read a story plainly writ
Caroline was Caroline: I was—very badly hit.
Caroline alone possessed all the heart within my breast.
2 
So I mused upon her face—ventured into verse of course.
Lay my racket in its place—at his picket stood my horse.
And my shot-gun in its baize slumbered two-and-twenty days.
3 
Yearnings dark and inchoate troubled next my lonely life—
Visions of a future state tempered by a charming wife
Drove me to a Bank Book, which proved me anything but rich.
4 
Tennyson I read with zeal; Browning's 'Men and Women' eke—
Scoffed at those who could not feel passion such as paled my cheek.
Thought of Caroline, and so felt exceeding hipped and low.
5 
Down my dexter shoulder ran torment it were vain to hide—
Anguish past the lot of man crumpled up my dexter side.
Sleeping after tiffin lit Tophet in my tummy's pit.
6 
Awful visions came by night; heavy drowsiness by day—
Little specks of coloured light seemed before my eyes to play.
To my door a Doctor drove. 'See,' quoth I, 'a prey to Love.'
7 
He was burly, brutal, plain; (I am slender, love-sick, young)
He to my disgust and pain punched my ribs and saw my tongue.
'Writ above my tomb', I sighed, ' "Twas for Caroline I died." ' 
8 
Foul prescriptions men made up for a pill as blue as I,  
Something in a coffee-cup racked my soul with agony, 
But the shoulder I confess seemed to pain a little less.
9 
Then the beefy man and coarse smackt me on my fragile back, 
Bade them saddle up my horse, never quite a lady's hack
(Weeks of idleness and gram had not made him more a lamb.)
10 
Heavens! How he scattered dust! Heavens! How I puffed and blew! 
There are times when lovers must be in thought to love untrue.
All my heart and soul I own centered on that brute alone.
11 
Knees were flayed and frame was sore, but the shoulder and the side 
Ceased from twingeing any more, and my body's torment died;
With it, horrible to say, fled my spirit's gloom away.
12 
Gone the tender thoughts and rare! Gone the yearnings vague and sweet!
Blown to bits by outer air; trampled 'neath a horse's feet.
Yea! the loathsome brew I quaffed seemed a very Lethe's draught.
13 
Was it liver? Was it love? In another, better land
I may yet the skein unrove; but, at present, as we stand,
Caroline is Caroline. I am Me and Me is Mine.

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I shall leave it in a little—leave it ere my term has run.
Of the millions that I govern, who will wish me back? Not one. 
Curse the land and all within it. As of old, the papers scoff—
Dreary columns of invective, read by stealth at Peterhoff.  
Peterhoff, that through the pine-trees overlooks the Simla hills, 
And the City of Calcutta where they rave against my Bills.
There I sketched my swart Utopia, nourishing the Babu's pride
On the fairy tales of Justice—with a leaning to his side.	
Many a morn at Chota Hazri  have I read Britannicus 
In the merry, merry spring-time when we'd Ilbert's child at 'nuss'. 
There, at more than one tamasha, have I heard the rowdies hiss,
And the whisper filled my pulses with a more than mule-like vis. 
So I pushed my measures forward, moulding words and facts like clay,
And I think I raised a dust storm in my 'cycle of Cathay'.  
Praise be blessed! I 'cut my lucky'—too delighted to resign 
All the God-forsaken sub chiz to a clearer head than mine. 
As the Country, so the Satrap. I was set to rule a land
Where the dullness of its people stayed my philanthropic hand. 
And I held them, when they halted, 'spite of legislative prog, 
Something slower than a snail, a trifle denser than a log.
So you've got it now, dear Duffy. Don't imagine East is West. 
Come and rule it ('tis your duty); try to kick it from its rest.
It will answer:—'Sahib jo hookum', and when pressed to clean its drains:-
'We don't want to play at mehters. Give us crops and steady rains .' 
(For my 'Loki Sluff's a failure, and I'll whisper, entre nous, 
There's a limp, unhappy Rent Bill  that you've got to carry through.) 
Yes! I see you old and soured (as you will be in a year),
Playing skittles, just as I did, with the rights men hold most dear.
As for me. Well—read the Mirror. Chatterjee becomes my foe. 
I am but a simple Viceroy. Where is it that I shall go?
Where there dwells no Secretariat—nor the myriad caller flocks—
Never comes the red chaprassee with the clinking office box.
Stay! I have it! O'er the ocean, man and climate both are kind.
I will fly to Studley Royal—that shall soothe my wearied mind.
Clad in tweed of heather-mixture will I turn to rod and gun—
Catch the salmon with the gaff, and 'pot' the rabbits as they run.
I would wish you joy, dear Duffy, you've your work cut out, I know.
But the special train is waiting at Umballa, and I go.

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. . . Lo! as a little child
Looks from its window on a mighty town, 
And sees the roofs as far as eye can reach,
But thinks not, knows not—nay, will not believe­ 
That there are Fathers, Mothers, Sisters, Homes 
All like his own, a thousand homely talks,
Manners, and customs—so I saw the world
With millions of my brethren. Then I wrote; 
And all my verse sprang fire-new from a brain 
That loved it and believed it. But the world 
Coldly, in silence, passed my numbers by.
Therefore I sang in fury! When the years 
Brought with them coolness, all too late I found
There were ten thousand, thousand thoughts like mine!

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1 
When you come to London Town,
   (Grieving—grieving!)
 Bring your flowers and lay them down
  At the place of grieving. 
2 
When you come to London Town,
   (Grieving—grieving!)
 Bow your head and mourn your own,
   With the others grieving. 
3 
For those minutes, let it wake
   (Grieving—grieving!)
 All the empty-heart and ache
    That is not cured by grieving. 
4 
For those minutes, tell no lie:
  (Grieving—grieving!)
“Grave, this is thy victory;
  And the sting of death is grieving.” 
5 
Where’s our help, from Earth or Heaven.
  (Grieving—grieving!)
 To comfort us for what we’ve given,
  And only gained the grieving? 
6 
Heaven’s too far and Earth too near,
  (Grieving—grieving!)
 But our neighbour’s standing here,
   Grieving as we’re grieving. 
7 
What’s his burden every day?
   (Grieving—grieving!)
 Nothing man can count or weigh,
  But loss and love’s own grieving. 
8 
What is the tie betwixt us two
   (Grieving—grieving!)
 That must last our whole lives through?
“As I suffer, so do you.”
  That may ease the grieving.

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1 
 Why gird at Lollius if he care
  To purchase in the city’s sight,
 With nard and roses for his hair,
  The name of Knight? 
2
Son of unmitigated sires
  Enriched by trade in Afric corn,
His wealth allows, his wife requires,
  Him to be born. 
3
Him slaves shall serve with zeal renewed
  At lesser wage for longer whiles,
And school- and station-masters rude
  Receive with smiles. 
4
His bowels shall be sought in charge
  By learned doctors; all his sons
And nubile daughters shall enlarge
  Their horizons.
5
For fierce she-Britons, apt to smite
  Their upward-climbing sisters down,
Shall smooth their plumes and oft invite
  The brood to town.
6
For these delights will he disgorge
  The State enormous benefice,
But—by the head of either George—
  He pays not twice! 
7
Whom neither lust for public pelf,
  Nor itch to make orations, vex—
Content to honour his own self
  With his own cheques— 
8
That man is clean. At least, his house
  Springs cleanly from untainted gold—
Not from a conscience or a spouse
  Sold and resold. 
9
Time was, you say, before men knew
  Such arts, and rose by Virtue guided?
The tables rock with laughter—you
  Not least derided.

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Halim the Potter from the rainy Hills,— 
Under the diamond coronetted pines,
The dun, rain sodden clouds that jewel them, 
The snake plants hooded tongued and venemous 
The briers and the orchids—sends  his word.
His Greeting to the Father whence he gained 
First, Life and then such Knowledge of The Craft 
As is his portion. 
                               For a double gift
A double greeting. Though alas! the Reed 
But bears the message coldly, and no gift 
From Halim's hand to yours accompanies. 
Yet he, being set about with many thoughts 
Because the Day is lucky (So they hold 
Who say Man's Day of Trouble is a thing 
Not to be disregarded lightly, kept
Year after year, when as the Day returns,
With such observance as the Life demands— 
To the great Life great Joy, the Little less. 
The work alone is worthy—not the Day
Or Birth or Death or—Softly. Who am I 
Halim, to hold a fancy thus?) He searched 
For gifts but after saw the thought was vain
Knowing fit weapons of The Craft were thine,
And the Sage Councillor that burns and dies 
Within the chillam Phoenix fashion, born 
Anew in greater labours fresher power
Than the unholpen brain could hope for—this
Was also thine; and so he held his hand 
Knowing there were no other gifts. He writes 
Instead his letter to the man who made
Him and his knowledge—so  the gift returns 
In some poor fashion to the giver. 
                                                            First 
Behind the Purdah (since I write to thee
Thee only, and the Munshi's at my side,
My thumb and two first fingers cannot blab)  
The Mother and the Child—which last e'en now 
Toils at her fancies in the lower room,
Weaving a mighty empire out of ghosts
As I red armies from the coarser clay—
Are fain of Thee because they know and feel 
How daily upwards runs the silver thread 
Up from the silver pellet—which  the men 
Beyond the seas have impiously set
As record of Gehenna's torments writes;— 'Take  heed
Because ye are the Chosen, yet all skill
Concentres not in Islam, Swine and dogs
Have knowledge of the weather more than ye—
Learn from them, praising Allah.' So they learn 
Your torment, written in the accursed tongue 
That babbles daily and is past my power
To riddle—for my work is otherwise—
Than Munshis babes and Babus. So they learn 
Your daily torment and would have you here, 
Save that the old distemper of the Hills
When clouds are lowest, holds The Mother fast
A little space. I doubt not that the drugs
Of them who know not Islam (—Read again
The Prophet's sentence, though thou knewest it 
Before I knew the platter from the cup—)
Will heal her shortly—all three sides are well
Of our small square but that they lack the fourth. 
I mostly O my Father! for what e'er
The Women wish, my loss is most of all
Seeing that it is double and I lose
My Master Craftsman with my Father.  Look!
Thou knowest (no man better) how the clay
Bends inward on the wheel, bends breaks and falls
If my hand run the pitcher lip too high.
Yea, one nail's breadth beyond  the guide—Thou knowest
How the raw clay—removed the potter 's hand—
Falls inward also—whether formed or not 
(I can but choose the similes I know)
(And know thou seest the meaning ere I write.)
As with the clay so with the potter—Close
Too close the likeness—thus my young mind thinks—
Two months ago, I held my skill was mine
Admitting hastily a certain hint
A council here and there. Perhaps one touch
On spout or belly ere we fired the kiln
Thy  hint, thy council and thy Touch. No more 
Than just so much as made (Why blink the truth?)
The bad thing good; the drunken pitcher straight
A thing desirable in the front of the stall.
My workmanship thou saidst—and I believed
It was so small a touch, so slight a word.
I threw the wet clay—marred it. Now I see!
The hand went and the clay thereafter fell
Uncouthly. These two months have shown the Truth.
It may be that thou knewest it before.
I learnt it lately, toiling at a vase
To do me credit. For myself alone.
(Was this the cause of failure ...It may be)
Because I loved the labour and no gold 
Should draw it from me. 'Twas a noble vase. 
(I recollect you gave the first design
A clean and noble fashioning thereto)
The thing has failed—not wholly failed. I learnt
Much that I should have learnt before alas!
The fair lip sprouted into useless length
(Who said I needed mud-banks for chirags?)
And all the belly blistered 'neath my hands
With shapes of Afrits, Shaitans, Djinns and ghouls
'I could not help it' so I told myself
And knew I lied—Thou knowest more than I.
But the distorted vessel still remains 
Against your coming. Does not Yusuf say
'Even the marred and unclean clay keep thou 
As record of past error. Hand and brain
May both take warning?' I have kept my work
For judgment. I can only see the faults
The Remedy is hidden. It may be
My pitcher lip exceeds the nail's breadth. This
At least is certain that the raw clay bends
Into ignoble shapes without thy hand
The vase has taught me. O! make haste and come, 
I can but mar the good, grey, clay till then
And Know I mar it, and would mar it more
But for past councils.
                                         Halim Yusuf's Son.

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1 
 The four Archangels, so the legends tell,
 Raphael, Gabriel, Michael, Azrael,
 Being first of those to whom the Power was shown,
 Stood first of all the Host before The Throne,
 And, when the Charges were allotted, burst
 Tumultuous-winged from out the assembly first.
 Zeal was their spur that bade them strictly heed
 Their own high judgment on their lightest deed.
 Zeal was their spur that, when relief was given,
 Urged them unwearied to new toils in Heaven;
 For Honour’s sake perfecting every task
 Beyond what e’en Perfection’s self could ask. 
 And Allah, Who created Zeal and Pride,
 Knows how the twain are perilous-near allied. 
2 
 It chanced on one of Heaven’s long-lighted days,
 The Four and all the Host being gone their ways
 Each to his Charge, the shining Courts were void
 Save for one Seraph whom no charge employed,
 With folden wings and slumber-threatened brow,
 To whom The Word: “Beloved, what dost thou?”
 “By the Permission,” came the answer soft,
 “Little I do nor do that little oft.
 As is The Will in Heaven so on Earth
 Where by The Will I strive to make men mirth.”
 He ceased and sped, hearing The Word once more:
 “Beloved, go thy way and greet the Four.” 
3 
 Systems and Universes overpast,
 The Seraph came upon the Four, at last,
 Guiding and guarding with devoted mind
 The tedious generations of mankind
 Who lent at most unwilling ear and eye
 When they could not escape the ministry. . . . 
 Yet, patient, faithful, firm, persistent, just
 Toward all that gross, indifferent, facile dust,
 The Archangels laboured to discharge their trust
 By precept and example, prayer and law,
 Advice, reproof, and rule, but, labouring, saw
 Each in his fellows’ countenance confessed,
 The Doubt that sickens: “Have I done my best?” 
4 
 Even as they sighed and turned to toil anew,
 The Seraph hailed them with observance due:
 And, after some fit talk of higher things,
 Touched tentative on mundane happenings.
 This they permitting, he, emboldened thus,
 Prolused of humankind promiscuous,
 And, since the large contention less avails
 Than instances observed, he told them tales—
 Tales of the shop, the bed, the court, the street.
 Intimate, elemental, indiscreet:
 Occasions where Confusion smiting swift
 Piles jest on jest as snowslides pile the drift
 Whence, one by one, beneath derisive skies,
 The victims’ bare, bewildered heads arise—
 Tales of the passing of the spirit, graced
 With humour blinding as the doom it faced—
 Stark tales of ribaldry that broke aside
 To tears, by laughter swallowed ere they dried—
 Tales to which neither grace nor gain accrue,
 But only (Allah be exalted!) true,
 And only, as the Seraph showed that night,
 Delighting to the limits of delight. 
5 
 These he rehearsed with artful pause and halt,
 And such pretence of memory at fault,
 That soon the Four—so well the bait was thrown—
 Came to his aid with memories of their own
 Matters dismissed long since as small or vain,
 Whereof the high significance had lain
 Hid, till the ungirt glosses made it plain.
 Then, as enlightenment came broad and fast,
 Each marvelled at his own oblivious past
 Until—the Gates of Laughter opened wide—
 The Four, with that bland Seraph at their side,
 While they recalled, compared, and amplified,
 In utter mirth forgot both Zeal and Pride! 
6 
 High over Heaven the lamps of midnight burned
 Ere, weak with merriment, the Four returned,
 Not in that order they were wont to keep—
 Pinion to pinion answering, sweep for sweep,
 In awful diapason heard afar—
 But shoutingly adrift ’twixt star and star;
 Reeling a planet’s orbit left or right
 As laughter took them in the abysmal Night;
 Or, by the point of some remembered jest,
 Winged and brought helpless down through gulfs unguessed,
 Where the blank worlds that gather to the birth
 Leaped in the Womb of Darkness at their mirth,
 And e’en Gehenna’s bondsmen understood.
 They were not damned from human brotherhood. . . .
7 
 Not first nor last of Heaven’s high Host, the Four
 That night took place beneath The Throne once more.
 O lovelier than their morning majesty,
 The understanding light behind the eye!
 O more compelling than their old command,
 The new-learned friendly gesture of the hand!
 O sweeter than their zealous fellowship,
 The wise half-smile that passed from lip to lip!
 O well and roundly, when Command was given,
 They told their tale against themselves to Heaven,
 And in the silence, waiting on The Word,
 Received the Peace and Pardon of The Lord!

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