Archives: Poems

The bold buccaneer, who had scuttled too soon
(Id est, ere obtaining the last, least doubloon)
Smack, brigantine, frigate, yacht, convoy or schoon–
er was held by his crew an incompetent 'coon';
And, though he had brought them through gale and typhoon,
Had given them treasure—and maidens to 'spoon',
They were wont—like mad dogs at the full of the moon—
To bind him and strip him to breeches and shoon;
Then, seeking some 'key' where the blue breakers croon
O'er the coral reef fringing the placid lagoon,
Where the 'pig' men call 'long' is boiled, roasted or stewn
By the innocent native at morn and at noon;
Where life is affliction and death is a boon
(Such islands e'en now o'er the south seas are strewn)
They would drop there the Captain—a hapless Maroon.

                                   ENVOI

Shah, Sultan, Prince, Kaiser, King, Negus, or Woon,
You may search, if you like, from December to June,
Rack Roget's Thesaurus and read till you swoon,
But, unless you work in some allusion to 'dune',
I don't think you'll get a fresh rhyme to Maroon.

          •      •       •       •        •        •        •

Rising to the challenge a little late (133 years) the 
People of the Kipling List have suggested this sequel
on March 19th 2020: 

'Take a swim if you need one, you useless gossoon !'.

So, stripped to his shirt and a torn pantaloon
Saying 'when I escape I will murder that goon
He was probably naught but a third-rate quadroon
Or even, God save us, a mere octaroon,'
With nothing to eat save a stale macaroon
And no green stuff in sight on the flanks of the dune
And fearing a tiger or ravenous baboon,
With a hideous cry like an ailing bassoon.
Aghast at the echoing wails of a loon
Saying 'I must take courage, else I'm a poltroon
There's really no point in appearing jejune'
He went onwards singing a heartening tune. 

Imagine his horror to meet a platoon
Of mercenaries led by an ugly Walloon
Who was – evidently – a tiresome buffoon
And had just disembarked from a hot air balloon
With a dire secret weapon, a savage raccoon. 
 

But he'd noticed a stone with a strange ancient rune
Which confirmed his celestial role as Glaroon
So plunging the beast in a handy spitoon
He brandished a perfectly fearful harpoon
Which he happened to find in a nearbye cocoon  
Refusing to plead or at worst importune
And assuming French guise (from his schooldays a boon)
To the mercenary crew he declared 
                                                       Salut! Une
Amie indienne me confirme qu'une belle lune,
(—His grip on the rhythm had gone—) qu'aucune dune
Ne cache au Deccan, ou précisément Pune, 
Lui révèle le secret d'un combat sans rancune;
Lui déclare que ce raton laveur (dit "raccoon")
Cédera en vitesse au wombat, dont de Troon
(En Ecosse) j'ai l'adresse— 

D'où Monsieur G Hoon* nous envoie LA SOLUTION:
Le wombat Pachoun (c'est son nom) qui arrive,
Vêtu de Paroun, muni d'aloo Bokhara— 
[A prune!] 
            Se proclamera ROI
...Accompagné 	 d'une des Wallonnes. 

*Anciennement ministre de la Défense  ("Buffoon") 

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(to be sung by the unlearned to the tune of “King John
and the Abbott of Canterbury”, and by the learned to
“Tempest-o-brewing”)

1 
Against the Bermudas we foundered, whereby
This Master, that Swabber, yon Bo’sun, and I
(Our pinnace and crew being drowned in the main)
Must beg for our bread through old England again. 
Refrain 
For a bite and a sup, and a bed of clean straw
We’ll tell you such marvels as man never saw,
On a Magical Island which no one did spy
Save this Master, that Swabber, yon Bo’sun, and I. 
2 
Seven months among Mermaids and Devils and Sprites,
And Voices that howl in the cedars o’ nights,
With further enchantments we underwent there.
Good Sirs, ’tis a tale to draw guts from a bear! 
3 
’Twixt Dover and Southwark it paid us our way,
Where we found some poor players were labouring a play;
And, willing to search what such business might be,
We entered the yard, both to hear and to see. 
4 
One hailed us for seamen and courteous-ly
Did take us apart to a tavern near by
Where we told him our tale (as to many of late),
And he gave us good cheer, so we gave him good weight. 
5 
Mulled sack and strong waters on bellies well lined
With beef and black pudding do strengthen the mind;
And seeing him greedy for marvels, at last
From plain salted truth to flat leasing we passed. 
6 
But he, when on midnight our reckoning he paid,
Says, ‘Never match coins with a Coiner by trade,
Or he’ll turn your lead pieces to metal as rare
As shall fill him this globe, and leave something to spare. . . .’
7 
We slept where they laid us, and when we awoke
’Was a crown or five shillings in every man’s poke.
We bit them and rang them, and, finding them good,
We drank to that Coiner as honest men should! 

For a cup and a crust, and a truss, etc. 

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                 You call yourself a man,
                    For all you used to swear,
                 An’ leave me, as you can,
                    My certain shame to bear?
                 I ’ear! You do not care—
                    You done the worst you know.
                 I ’ate you, grinnin’ there. .
                 . . Ah, Gawd, I love you so!  

Nice while it lasted, an’ now it is over—
Tear out your ’eart an’ good-bye to your lover!
What’s the use o’ grievin’, when the mother that bore you
(Mary, pity women!) knew it all before you?  

                 It aren’t no false alarm,
                    The finish to your fun;
                 You—you ’ave brung the ’arm,
                    An’ I’m the ruined one;
                 An’ now you’ll off an’ run
                    With some new fool in tow.
                 Your ’eart? You ’aven’t none. . . .
                    Ah, Gawd, I love you so!  

When a man is tired there is naught will bind ’im;
All ’e solemn promised ’e will shove be’ind ’im.
What’s the good o’ prayin’ for The Wrath to strike ’im
(Mary, pity women!), when the rest are like ’im?  

                 What ’ope for me or—it?
                    What’s left for us to do?
                 I’ve walked with men a bit,
                    But this—but this is you.
                 So ’elp me Christ, it’s true!
                    Where can I ’ide or go?
                 You coward through and through! . . .
                    Ah, Gawd, I love you so!  

All the more you give ’em the less are they for givin’—
Love lies dead, an’ you cannot kiss ’im livin’.
Down the road ’e led you there is no returnin’
(Mary, pity women!), but you’re late in learnin’!  

                 You’d like to treat me fair?
                    You can’t, because we’re pore?
                 We’d starve? What do I care!
                    We might, but this is shore!
                 I want the name—no more—
                    The name, an’ lines to show,
                 An’ not to be an ’ore. . . .
                    Ah, Gawd, I love you so!  

What’s the good o’ pleadin’, when the mother that bore you
(Mary, pity women!) knew it all before you?
Sleep on ’is promises an’ wake to your sorrow
(Mary, pity women!), for we sail to-morrow! 

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••WALT WHITMAN

 It is seldom that an American poet condescends to interest himself in
so remote a land as India; and I am proportionately glad, therefore, to
be able to record this week a great kindness on the part of no less
distinguished a singer than Walt Whitman. Once upon a time, indeed,
the bard was styled—not by his admirers—the 'Inspired Auctioneer
of the Universe', but he has long outlived the reproach which the
elaborate detail of his workmanship drew down upon him; and
the swing of his half rhythmic, half declamatory, wholly musical lines,
has now drawn round him a delighted and admiring school of followers.
What the great poet's views of an Indian New Year are may be seen
from the following reply to a modest request for 'something seasonable':—


"Dekho! Look here!
From the pines of the Alleghannies I, Walt Whitman—colossal,
pyramidal, immense—send salutation.
I project myself into your personality—! become an integral part of
you.
I am the Junior Civilian horribly dikked by the Superior Being, and
squabbling with a tactless, factless Municipal Committee; and I
too pray for a happy new year.
I am also the Superior Being, impassive, and waltzing on the toes of
all within reach. I too pray, without prejudice, for a happy new year.
I am the European loafer, drunk in the bazaar on country spirits,
with blue lips and a green rat crawling down my neck. I too, out
of the gutter pray for a happy new year.
I am the gay, the joyous subaltern, with six ponies in my stables and
a shroff in the background. And I too pray for a happy new year.
I am the "joy of wild asses" with my husband absent in the
Soudan and a ten-strong following at my high silk heels. And I
too pray for a happy new year.
I am in Sirsa, Jhang or Montgomery, separated from Dicky,
Emmy or Baby, living in a tent with my husband who is seedy
and overworked. I read the smudgy, round-hand home-letters,
and I too pray for a happy new year.
Oh! Civilian, Superior Being, Loafer, Subaltern, Grass-Widow and
Grass-Mother of many conflicting domesticities, I salute you.
In the name of our great ruler Humanity I too wish you all
individually and collectively, somehow or any how—a Happy
New Year."

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 Before a midnight breaks in storm,
    Or herded sea in wrath,
Ye know what wavering gusts inform
    The greater tempest's path;
       Till the loosed wind
       Drive all from mind,
Except Distress, which, so will prophets cry,
O'ercame them, houseless, from the unhinting sky.

Ere rivers league against the land
    In piratry of flood,
Ye know what waters steal and stand
    Where seldom water stood.
       Yet who will note,
       Till fields afloat,
And washen carcass and the returning well,
Trumpet what these poor heralds strove to tell?

Ye know who use the Crystal Ball
    (To peer by stealth on Doom),
The Shade that, shaping first of all,
    Prepares an empty room.
       Then doth It pass
       Like breath from glass,
But, on the extorted Vision bowed intent,
No man considers why It came or went.

Before the years reborn behold
    Themselves with stranger eye,
And the sport-making Gods of old,
       Like Samson slaying, die,
       Many shall hear
       The all-pregnant sphere,
Bow to the birth and sweat, but—speech denied—
Sit dumb or—dealt in part—fall weak and wide.

Yet instant to fore-shadowed need
    The eternal balance swings;
That winged men, the Fates may breed
    So soon as Fate hath wings.
       These shall possess
       Our littleness,
And in the imperial task (as worthy) lay
Up our lives' all to piece one giant Day.

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1 
Beyond the path of the outmost sun through utter darkness hurled—
Further than ever comet flared or vagrant star-dust swirled—
Live such as fought and sailed and ruled and loved and made our world. 
2 
They are purged of pride because they died, they know the worth of their bays,
They sit at wine with the Maidens Nine and the Gods of the Elder Days,
It is their will to serve or be still as fitteth our Father’s praise. 
3 
’Tis theirs to sweep through the ringing deep where Azrael’s outposts are,
Or buffet a path through the Pit’s red wrath when God goes out to war,
Or hang with the reckless Seraphim on the rein of a red-maned star. 
4 
They take their mirth in the joy of the Earth—they dare not grieve for her pain—
They know of toil and the end of toil, they know God’s law is plain,
So they whistle the Devil to make them sport who know that Sin is vain. 
5 
And ofttimes cometh our wise Lord God, master of every trade,
And tells them tales of His daily toil, of Edens newly made;
And they rise to their feet as He passes by, gentlemen unafraid. 
6 
To these who are cleansed of base Desire, Sorrow and Lust and Shame—
Gods for they knew the hearts of men, men for they stooped to Fame,
Borne on the breath that men call Death, my brother’s spirit came. 
7 
He scarce had need to doff his pride or slough the dross of Earth—
E’en as he trod that day to God so walked he from his birth,
In simpleness and gentleness and honour and clean mirth. 
8 
So cup to lip in fellowship they gave him welcome high
And made him place at the banquet board—the Strong Men ranged thereby,
Who had done his work and held his peace and had no fear to die. 
9 
Beyond the loom of the last lone star, through open darkness hurled,
Further than rebel comet dared or hiving star-swarm swirled,
Sits he with those that praise our God for that they served His world.

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Dear Auntie, your parboiled nephew reclines with his feet on a chair,	
Watching the punkah swing through the red-hot fly-full air;
For, when work is nearly at end and the telephone ceases to ring,
Then the soul of the poet awakes and the 'Stunt' begins to sing.

Sings, as Sterne's starling wailed, watching the blazing sun 
'I can't get out'—at least, till after the sunset gun;
For the heavens are red hot iron and the earth is burning brass,
And the river glares in the sun like a torrent of molten glass, 
And the quivering heat haze rises, the pitiless sunlight glows 
Till my cart reins blister my fingers as my spectacles blisters my nose.

Heat, like a baker's oven that sweats one down to the bone
Never such heat, and such health, has your parboiled nephew known.
May the Gods forgive my boasting, but nearly a year has fled 
And I haven't been seedy once, in liver or stomach or head.
 
An inference thence I draw that, given a daily fill
Of work, I've no time to waste in loafing and 'feeling ill'.
But what are my liver and lights and other organs to you? 
We've all of us got 'em, I know and some of us badly too.

Let me off to another subject—that joy of my youthful heart 
A varnished dream of delight, my beautiful bamboo cart,
With a real live horse attached, and whip with no end of a lash 
And a groom to sit behind, in case I should meet with a smash, 
A fearful and wonderful way is the fashion wherein I drive, 
But the Pater's been driven by me—and the pater is yet alive.
 
And after the cart comes the Club—I am honorary member: 
Waiting for pukka election by ballot in next September.
And this is a pleasant thing and pleasant it is to stray,
Down to the gossip and 'cool'th' at the end of a busy day.

Pleasant to breakfast or dine there, pleasant to chat there—and that recalls
A fact to my mind, I'm engaged, just now, on some station theatricals.
This is exciting work and calculated to slump any
Man in the world, to deal with an amateur acting company.

Everyone wants 'best part', every one slurs the fact,
That unless we rehearse at times we shall never be able to act.
Nobody comes to rehearsal—everyone says 'all right
We're a wee bit shaky now but we'll struggle through on "the night"'.
 
Wednesday; I went for a ride this morning, before it was light
Down to my office to see the 'weekly edition' put right.
In the hush of the dim, dark, dawn as the night began to retreat
And the jackal dashed to lair, at the sound of my horse's feet.

When the great kite preened its wings, and called to its mate from the tree,
And the lilac opened its buds 'ere the sun should be up to see;
And the trailing rose clumps thrilled with the sparrows' pent up strife
Oh! a ride in an Indian dawn there's no such pleasure in life!

Solemn and sober my trot (for I haven't a jockey's hold)
But the freshness woke up Joe, who frisked like a two-year-old,
Snorting and stamping and neighing, as he thought of the decade or two
Since he ran by his mother's side at Wazirabad or Bunnoo.

But the sun rose only too soon, and at seven I came back, yet
My saddle was (saving your presence) as black as my boots with sweat
And my face was a dripping horror and Joe a reeking offence—
When I gave him his slice of bread, in the garden, and staggered thence
To my room for a tunda ghuzul  (which means a refreshing tub)
Then went to my proofs till nine, and at nine o'clock went to my grub—

Verily, this is a rough written, empty aimless screed ...
I can only ask you Aunt Edie to take the will for the deed.
Had I time, as inclination, I would send you a twenty page budget
But the needs of the paper are many and therefore this letter I fudge it.

The sound of our thundering presses comes up like the surge on that shore
We sat by and talked together six thousand miles from Lahore—
If I shut my eyes and the parrots were hushed in the palms outside,
I might fancy myself for a time by some wholesome English tide.

But the hot air puffs in my face, and you are away from me 
While the punkah puddles the heat of an office at ninety three.
White, limewashed glaring walls are not like a white chalk cliff 
And only my daily work and never a breeze is stiff.

So I end my dolorous ditty with a howl of wild despair
As I write in my sodden shirtsleeves, with feet put up on a chair.
Oh, what is 'two hundred a month', and half-year 'rises' to come 
To a fellow with hairs in his pen, and lizard-tails in his gum;

His ink putrescent and loathsome, a paste of corrupting flies 
His spectacles dimmed and steamy, and goggles over his eyes.
'Oh give me a London trottoir, some byewalk damp and muddy.
In place of this wholesome heat' is the cry of your washed out
...Ruddy

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Note from Website Editor ISB 2024 - I have taken the liberty to add 
fullstops and split the original text into verses, so that it is easily 
"readable"–because I think this matters more than anything else.

All cooking is absolutely
forbidden in studies henceforth, except
in Prefects' Studies. April 1881. 
Signed ------School Order

1
The cup is devoid of its coffee, 
  The spoon of its sugary load,
The table-cloth guiltless of toffee, 
  And sorrow has seized our abode.
Our tasks they are dry as the sea-sands, 
  Our throats they are drier than these, 
No cocoa has moistened our weasands.
  We taste not of teas.
2
We, once that were bloated with brewing, 
  We, once that were broad of the beam,
Are utterly changed and eschewing 
  All pleasures of junket and cream.
We, once that awakened in sorrow, 
  In heaviness, nausea, and night,
Sleep calm through the dark to the morrow, 
  Through silence to light. 
3
There be pleasures men take for their pleasing, 
  The pleasures of reading and rhyme,
That the soul may have comfort and easing, 
  And solace and rest for a time.
There be pleasures of palette and painting, 
  The pleasures of limb and of length, 
Where our spirits stay wearied and fainting
  And lacking in strength.
4
Let them revel in what they require,
  Let them feast upon Beauty and bend 
To its passion, its pathos, and fire,
  And follow it up to the end.
Our spirits are simple and placid, 
  With principle porcine endued,­
Be it sweetened, or mucous, or acid, 
  Our fetish is Food.
5
The taste on the tongue though it cloyeth, 
  The silence unbroken and still,
When the spirit quiescent enjoyeth 
  The acidulous down-reaching thrill;
The Joy of the Jaw in its motion, 
  The Tooth as it teareth in twain,
These be Gods and they have our devotion
  In pleasure or pain.
6
The Jampot, the Ginger, the Jelly, 
  Meat mortared, enticing in tins,
They are brought as a boon to the Belly, 
  What time our instruction begins,
Oleaginous, cramped and confined, 
  Sardines as they shimmer in oil,
In the quarter for lunch are designed 
  As guerdon of toil.
7
And therefore this change is a trouble, 
  A trouble and wasting of much,
When the kettle hath ceased from its bubble, 
  And saucepans are useless as such.
Our tin-ware is turned to derision, 
  Our gas-stoves lie grimy and grim.
Our lights like the lights of a vision 
  Burn bluely and dim.

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            Singer and tailor am I—
                    Doubled the joys that I know—
            Proud of my lilt to the sky,
                    Proud of the house that I sew—
Over and under, so weave I my music—so weave I the house that I sew.

              Sing to your fledglings again,
                  Mother, O lift up your head!
          Evil that plagued us is slain,
                Death in the garden lies dead.
Terror that hid in the roses is impotent—flung on the dunghill and dead!

        Who hath delivered us, who?
               Tell me his nest and his name.
         Rikki, the valiant, the true,
           Tikki, with eyeballs of flame,
Rik-tikki-tikki, the ivory-fangèd, the Hunter with eyeballs of flame.

        Give him the Thanks of the Birds,
                Bowing with tail-feathers spread!
        Praise him in nightingale-words—
           Nay, I will praise him instead.
Hear! I will sing you the praise of the bottle-tailed Rikki, with eyeballs of red!

(Here Rikki-tikki interrupted, and the rest of the song is lost.)  

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