Poems – Page 73 – The Kipling Society

At the Bar

'Is it or is it not true that the hon'ble Mr H. E. Sullivan has
violated the covenant of his order? His honour has been called
in question. Yet he moves not.' Pioneer, 25 September
1 
Help for a Councillor distressed—a spotless spirit hurt! 
Help for an honourable name sore trampled in the dirt!
From Mandalay to moist Bombay, oh listen to my song—
The honourable Sullivan has suffered 'grievous wrong'.
2 
Four times his name was mentioned–oh, the burning black disgrace,
By that wicked Mr. Norton in the Garstin beating case.
Whereon he instituted suits and filed an affidavit;
And in favour of the barrister five learned judges gave it.
3 
They gave it on a point of law—so let the question slide.
Another more important case is waiting to be tried— 
Another and a larger Bench are asking, as their due, 
Some simple explanations, Mr Sullivan, from you.
4 
As the senior of a council incorruptible and just,
The honour of our Government was yours to hold in trust.
Men say the trust was, broken—that  the pledge was cast aside.
You have seen the charge in writing. Is that charge to be denied?
5 
Now, hereafter, when Grant Duff shall quit a deeply thankful nation,
With a scrap-book full of speeches and a blasted reputation,
You will rule his thirty millions for a time—and understand,
Every moment of your rule, Sir, is an insult to the land.
6 
You—a bye-word through the country from Peshawur to Ceylon,
You will govern Southern India when your worthy chief has gone—
You—the man of deft excuses—will your truthful pen deny
That Kimberley in black and white has given you the lie?
7 
But in truth, he had an interest—you'll remember what he wrote
On the Richings land-job business—Tis a nasty thing to quote;
But you got the lie direct, Sir, in a curt official line.
And you took the insult meekly—bore the shame and made no sign.
8 
There's a virtue in forbearance—but the time has come to show
You are much maligned and libelled, or to leave your post and go.
For the honour of your service, let us know you as you are;
'Is it guilty or not guilty?' Answer, prisoner at the Bar.

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As far as the East is set from the West

As far as the East is set from the West, 
  As far as the North from the South,
So far is my breast set from thy breast 
  As far as the North from the South,
And my mouth from thy mouth.
I in the East and thou in the West
And nought between us but deep unrest.

In the East there liveth unresting pain,
  And pain in the sullen West,
And the sea keeps peace between us twain,
  And the sea is never at rest.
For the winds that torture a barren main, 
Are full of the messages twixt us twain.

Bound hands stretched from the sullen West, 
  To fettered hands in the East;
And Love, a troubled and wearied guest 
  And Love, a hopeless priest.
Building his altar in east and west,
And two hearts hoping aye for the best.

Shall my eyes always turn to the west 
  As thine toward the east?
Can a love that found its spring in the west
  Die in the glaring east?
Shall we each find comfort where we be
With never a thought for over the sea?

  Shade that lieth equally,
  On Western sea and Eastern sea, 
  Who can tell what the end can be?

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Azrael’s Count

Lo! the Wild Cow of the Desert, her yearling estrayed from her—
Lost in the wind plaited sand-dunes—athirst in the maze of them.
Hot foot she follows those foot-prints—the thrice tangled ways of them.
Her soul is shut save to one thing—the love-quest consuming her.
Fearless she lows past the camp, men’s fires affright her not.
Ranges she close to the tethered ones—the mares by the lances held.
Noses she softly apart the veil in the women’s tent.
Next—withdrawn under moonlight, a shadow afar off—
Fades. Ere men cry, ‘Hold her fast!’ darkness recovers her.
She the love-crazed and forlorn, when the dogs threaten her
Only a side-tossed horn, as though a fly troubled her,
Shows she hath heard, till a lance in the heart of her quivereth.
—Lo, from that carcass aheap—where speeds the soul of it?
Where is the tryst it must keep? Who is her pandar? Death! 

Men I dismiss to the Mercy greet me not willingly;
Crying, ‘Why seekest Thou me first? Are not my kin unslain?’
Shrinking aside from the Sword-edge, blinking the glare of it,
Sinking the chin in the neck-bone. How shall that profit them?
Yet, among men a ten thousand, few meet me otherwise. 

Yet, among women a thousand, one comes to me mistress-wise.
Arms open, breasts open, mouth open—hot is her need on her.
Crying, ‘Ho Servant, acquit me, the bound by Love’s promises!
Haste Thou! He waits! I would go! Handle me lustily!’
Lo! her eyes stare past my wings, as things unbeheld by her,
Lo! her lips summonsing part. I am not whom she calls.
Lo! My sword sinks and returns. At no time she heedeth it
More than the dust of a journey, her garments brushed clear of it.
Lo! Ere the blood-rush has ceased, forward her soul rushes.
She is away to her tryst. Who is her pandar? Death!

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London Town

There's no God in London, 
  Weary, wicked London.
For, look you, I've lost my friend— 
  Lost her in London.
My heart's best friend 
  Is astray in London,
        Your terrible London!

You've miles of granite streets 
  In stony London;
And millions toiling in London, 
  Crowded London;
But I cannot find my friend, 
  My poor lost friend,
For the tumult and traffic of London, 
        Pitiless London!

It's cruel seeking in London, 
  Boundless London,
For a face that'll never come—
  For the face of a friend,
The face of my lost, lost friend, 
  Lost in London.
There's no God in London, 
        Your terrible London!

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The Man who could Write

           Shun—shun the Bowl! That fatal, facile drink
              Has ruined many geese who dipped their quills in ’t;
           Bribe, murder, marry, but steer clear of Ink
             Save when you write receipts for paid-up bills in ’t.
           There may be silver in the “blue-black”—all
           I know of is the iron and the gall.
 
1 
Boanerges Blitzen, servant of the Queen,
Is a dismal failure—is a Might-have-been.
In a luckless moment he discovered men
Rise to high position through a ready pen.
2 
Boanerges Blitzen argued therefore—“I,
With the selfsame weapon, can attain as high.”
Only he did not possess when he made the trial,
Wicked wit of Colvin, irony of Lyall.

[Men who spar with Government need, to back their blows,
Something more than ordinary journalistic prose.]
3 
Never young Civilian’s prospects were so bright,
Till an Indian paper found that he could write:
Never young Civilian’s prospects were so dark,
When the wretched Blitzen wrote to make his mark.
4 
Certainly he scored it, bold, and black, and firm,
In that Indian paper—made his seniors squirm,
Quoted office scandals, wrote the tactless truth—
Was there ever known a more misguided youth?
5 
When the Rag he wrote for praised his plucky game,
Boanerges Blitzen felt that this was Fame;
When the men he wrote of shook their heads and swore,
Boanerges Blitzen only wrote the more:
6 
Posed as Young Ithuriel, resolute and grim,
Till he found promotion didn’t come to him;
Till he found that reprimands weekly were his lot,
And his many Districts curiously hot.
7 
Till he found his furlough strangely hard to win,
Boanerges Blitzen didn’t care a pin:
Then it seemed to dawn on him something wasn’t right—
Boanerges Blitzen put it down to “spite”;
8 
Languished in a District desolate and dry;–
Watched the Local Government yearly pass him by;
Wondered where the hitch was; called it most unfair.
                            •  •  •  •
That was seven years ago—and he still is there!

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The Absent-minded Beggar

1
When you've shouted "Rule Britannia," 
When you've sung "God save the Queen," 
  When you've finished killing Kruger with your mouth,
Will you kindly drop a shilling in my little tambourine
  For a gentleman in khaki ordered South? 
He's an absent-minded beggar, and his weaknesses are great— 
  But we and Paul must take him as we find him— 
He is out on active service, wiping something off a slate 
  And he's left a lot of little things behind him! 
Duke's son—cook's son - son of a hundred kings 
  (Fifty thousand horse and foot going to Table Bay!) 
Each of 'em doing his country's work
  (and who's to look after their things?)
Pass the hat for your credit's sake,
                                         and pay—pay—pay!  
2
There are girls he married secret, asking no permission to, 
  For he knew he wouldn't get it if he did.
There is gas and coals and vittles, and the house-rent falling due, 
  And its more than rather likely there’s a kid. 
There are girls he’s walked with casual. They’ll be sorry now he’s gone, 
  For an absent-minded beggar they will find him, 
But it ain’t the time for sermons with the winter coming on 
  We must help the girl that Tommy’s left behind him! 
Cook's son—Duke's son—son of a belted Earl 
  Son of a Lambeth publican—it's all the same to-day! 
Each of 'em doing his country's work 
  (and who's to look after the girl?)
Pass the hat for your credit's sake,
                                        and pay—pay—pay!  
3
There are families by thousands, far too proud to beg or speak,
  And they'll put their sticks and bedding up the spout,
And they'll live on half o'nothing, paid 'em punctual once a week,
  'Cause the man that earns the wage is ordered out.
He's an absent-minded beggar, but he heard his country call,
  And his reg'ment didn't need to send to find him!
He chucked his job and joined it—so the job before us all 
  Is to help the home that Tommy's left behind him!  
Duke's job—cook's job—gardener, baronet, groom.
  Mews or palace or paper-shop, there's someone gone away!
Each of 'em doing his country's work 
  (and who's to look after the room?)
Pass the hat for your credit's sake,
                                         and pay—pay—pay!  
4
Let us manage so as, later, we can look him in the face, 
  And tell him—what he'd very much prefer—
That, while he saved the Empire, his employer saved his place,
  And his mates (that's you and me) looked out for her.
He's an absent-minded beggar and he may forget it all,
  But we do not want his kiddies to remind him
That we sent 'em to the workhouse while their daddy hammered Paul, 
  So we'll help the homes that Tommy left behind him! 
Cook's home—Duke's home—home of a millionaire,
  (Fifty thousand horse and foot going to Table Bay!)
Each of 'em doing his country's work
  (and what have you got to spare?)
Pass the hat for your credit's sake, 
                                         and pay—pay—pay!

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Amour de Voyage

And I was a man who could write you rhyme 
  (Just so much for you—nothing more),
And you were the woman I loved for a time— 
  Loved for a little, and nothing more.
We shall go our ways when the voyage is o'er, 
  You with your beauty and I with my rhymes,
With a dim remembrance rising at time
   (Only a memory, nothing more)
Of a lovely face and some worthless rhymes.

Meantime till our comedy reaches its end 
  (Its comic ending, and nothing more)
I shall live as your lover who loved as a friend—
  Shall swear true love till life be o'er.
And you, you must make believe and attend, 
  As the steamer throbs from shore to shore.

And so, we shall pass the time for a little 
  (Pass it in pleasure, and nothing more),
For vows, alas! are sadly brittle;
  And each may forget the oaths that we swore. 
And have we not loved for an age, an age?
  And was I not yours from shore to shore? 
From landing-stage to landing-stage
  Did I not worship and kneel and adore? 
And what is a month in love but an age?
  And who in their senses would wish for more?

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Alnaschar and the Oxen

There's a pasture in a valley where the hanging woods divide,
And a Herd lies down and ruminates in peace;
Where the pheasant rules the nooning, and the owl the twilight tide,
And the war-cries of our world die out and cease.
Here I cast aside the burden that each weary week-day brings 
And, delivered from the shadows I pursue, 
On peaceful, postless, Sabbaths I consider Weighty Things 
Such as Sussex Cattle feeding in the dew!  

At the gate beside the river where the trouty shallows brawl, 
I know the pride that Lobengula felt, 
When he bade the bars be lowered of the Royal Cattle Kraal, 
And fifteen miles of oxen took the veldt. 
From the walls of Bulawayo in unbroken file they came 
To where the Mount of Council cuts the blue . . . 
I have only six and twenty, but the principle's the same 
With my Sussex Cattle feeding in the dew!  

To a luscious sound of tearing, where the clovered herbage rips, 
Level-backed and level-bellied watch 'em move. 
See those shoulders, guess that heart-girth, praise those loins, admire those hips, 
And the tail set low for flesh to make above! 
Count the broad unblemished muzzles, test the kindly mellow skin 
And, where yon heifer lifts her head at call, 
Mark the bosom's just abundance 'neath the gay and cleancut chin, 
And those eyes of Juno, overlooking all!  

Here is colour, form and substance, I will put it to the proof 
And, next season, in my lodges shall be born 
Some very Bull of Mithras, flawless from his agate hoof 
To his even-branching ivory, dusk-tipped horn. 
He shall mate with block-square virgins - kings shall seek his like in vain, 
While I multiply his stock a thousandfold, 
Till an hungry world extol me, builder of a lofty strain 
That turns one standard ton at two years old.  

There's a valley, under oakwood, where a man may dream his dream,
In the milky breath of cattle laid at ease, 
Till the moon o'ertops the alders, and her image chills the stream,
And the river-mist runs silver round their knees! 
Now the footpaths fade and vanish; now the ferny clumps deceive; 
Now the hedgerow-folk possess their fields anew; 
Now the Herd is lost in darkness, and I bless them as I leave, 
My Sussex Cattle feeding in the dew!

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Alnaschar

‘The rate of Exchange in Bombay on Saturday,
November 20th was 1s. 6d, and the market was firm.’

1 
So runs the telegram. Prepare
      The fatted calf—the firstling slay!
Wife of my Soul! Our meagre fare 
      Shall be a Persian feast today.
The Widow's vintage must be poured
This night above our humble board.
2 
Bring forth the Bank-book—let us con 
      The total of our savings small.
Draw draughts the London branch upon; 
      Tomorrow we remit it all.
There is a tide—but no one knows
How soon it ebbs—how far it flows.
3 
Methinks there is a suaver touch,
      A blander influence o'er the Earth;
The pauper East from Prome to Cutch
      Is radiant with returning mirth. 
The very sky that hems us in,
Beams with a fine financial grin.  
4 
The fervid Sun seems almost kind,
      My evening mutton almost tender;
Yea, at this moment, I could find
      Heart to believe my spouse is—slender.
Long vistas of enormous wealth 
Confront me as I drink her health. 
5 
Now Thomas Timpkins—he my son, 
      A lad of rare and curious parts—
Shall blossom as the seasons run 
      Into a Bachelor of Arts.
Oxford in after years shall claim
A share of his illustrious name.
6 
Amelia—Yes—a ladies' school
      At Brighton. Then, a year or twain
At Paris under Convent rule— 
      Then to her parents' arms again.
And last—Oh joy for us and her!—
Wife of a full Commissioner.
7 
And—let me see—my leave next year 
      Is due. I really think we might—
Eh, Mrs Timpkins?—save a clear
      Three thou . . .
            The Clicquot's finished quite.
Alas! To think so poor am I—
A penny sets me leaping high!

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Akbar’s Bridge

1
Jelaludin Muhammed Akbar, Guardian of Mankind,
Moved his standards out of Delhi to Jaunpore of lower Hind,
Where a mosque was to be builded, and a lovelier ne'er was planned;
And Munim Khan, his Viceroy, slid the drawings 'neath his hand.
2
High as Hope upsheered her out-works to the promised Heavens above.
Deep as Faith and dark as Judgment her unplumbed foundations dove.
Wide as Mercy, white as moonlight, stretched her forecourts to the dawn;
And Akbar gave commandment, "Let it rise as it is drawn."
3
Then he wearied—the mood moving—of the men and things he ruled,
And he walked beside the Goomti while the flaming sunset cooled,
Simply, without mark or ensign—singly, without guard or guide,
Till he heard an angry woman screeching by the river-side.
4
'Twas the Widow of the Potter, a virago feared and known,
In haste to cross the ferry, but the ferry-man had gone.
So she cursed him and his office, and hearing Akbar's tread,
(She was very old and darkling) turned her wrath upon his head.
5
But he answered—being Akbar—"Suffer me to scull you o'er."
Called her "Mother," stowed her bundles, worked the clumsy scow from shore,
Till they grounded on a sand-bank, and the Widow loosed her mind;
And the stars stole out and chuckled at the Guardian of Mankind.
6
"Oh, most impotent of bunglers! Oh, my daughter's daughter's brood
Waiting hungry on the threshold; for I cannot bring their food,
Till a fool has learned his business at their virtuous grandam's cost,
And a greater fool, our Viceroy, trifles while her name is lost!
7
"Munim Khan, that Sire of Asses, sees me daily come and go
As it suits a drunken boatman, or this ox who cannot row.
Munim Khan, the Owl's Own Uncle—Munim Khan, the Capon's seed,
Must build a mosque to Allah when a bridge is all we need!
8
"Eighty years I eat oppression and extortion and delays—
Snake and crocodile and fever, flood and drouth, beset my ways.
But Munim Khan must tax us for his mosque whate'er befall;
Allah knowing (May He hear me!) that a bridge would save us all!"
9
While she stormed that other laboured and, when they touched the shore,
Laughing brought her on his shoulder to her hovel's very door.
But his mirth renewed her anger, for she thought he mocked the weak;
So she scored him with her talons, drawing blood on either cheek....
10
Jelaludin Muhammed Akbar, Guardian of Mankind,
Spoke with Munim Khan his Viceroy, ere the midnight stars declined—
Girt and sworded, robed and jewelled, but on either cheek appeared
Four shameless scratches running from the turban to the beard.
11
"Allah burn all Potter's Widows! Yet, since this same night was young,
One has shown me by pure token, there was a wisdom on her tongue.
Yes, I ferried her for hire. Yes," he pointed, "I was paid."
And he told the tale rehearsing all the Widow did and said.
12
And he ended, "Sire of Asses—Capon—Owl's Own Uncle—know
I—most impotent of bunglers—I—this ox who cannot row—
I—Jelaludin Muhammed Akbar, Guardian of Mankind—
Bid thee build the hag her bridge and put our mosque from out thy mind."
13
So 'twas built, and Allah blessed it; and, through earthquake, flood, and sword,
Still the bridge his Viceroy builded throws her arch o'er Akbar's Ford!

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