O hushed December midnight mild,
Thy lights have brightened to enthral;
Tomorrow’s snow, if it be piled,
Should hide them all.
The bulbs along the houses pall;
Lingering there we turn and go.
O hushed December midnight mild,
In shadows of this night aglow,
Make the dark seem to us less deep.
Hearts longing to be blanketed,
Blanket us in benighted snow.
We slumber at the break of day;
At noon we reach a deeper sleep;
Awake at night, a light display.
Dismiss the sun with slow descent;
Enchant the land as albescent.
Snow, snow!
For the stars’ sake, if they were all,
Whose bulbs already are burnt with frost,
Whose fragile glow must else be lost -
For the stars’ sake along the wall.

put them on the tree

If this at all interests you, check it out. If not – nothing to see here, please move along.

My all-time favourite Yeats poem will probably forever be He Wishes for the Cloths of Heaven. (Early versions used the confusingly-named “Aedh” instead of “He”, but seriously – Aedh is just a terrible name.) The poem’s inclusion in a poignant scene from the awesome yet under-appreciated Christian Bale flick Equilibrium contributes heavily to its lasting appeal. But I was already a fan of the poem before seeing the film, which then made me enjoy Equilibrium even more for using it. It’s like a positive feedback loop of artistic appreciation.

An Irish Airman Foresees his Death is also a really great poem. Of course my undying fascination with aerial combat, especially from the “good ol’ days”, tends to bias my opinion on this. But it’s a particularly well-written piece of war poetry, ignoring notions of glory, honour, and hatred for the enemy. Instead it captures sentiments of flying for flight’s sake – of the soldier as fundamentally human, despite the absurdities of his temporary profession.

If I were a fighter pilot, I’d probably write this poem on my fuselage somewhere. Which might totally seem like a “bad luck charm”, but hey, I’m not Irish. I’m also not a fighter pilot… yet. :P

now it’s hardly simple, it’s just simply hard

Despite being an obvious master of rhyme and rhythm, a wizard of verse and vision, the thing with Kipling’s poetry is that, well, it often seems rather racist. And sexist. And chauvinistic. Not to mention religiously, politically, and culturally intolerant.

So why would I even want to admit that I appreciate such works, let alone share them? Certainly I don’t want to associate myself with such deplorable qualities?

Well, I’ve always read his works through a filter of postmodern irony, finding poems like The White Man’s Burden and The Female of the Species to be sarcastic jibes intended to offend the easily-offended for the sake of conveying some deeper truth, as though Kipling was playing to his times (when being white, male, English, and rich pretty much meant you were “the shit”) and using the prejudices of his readers to his poetic advantage.

However, further reflection raises the possibility that Kipling was perhaps less ironic than I originally expected. He uses fairly harsh language sometimes, and he definitely drops rhymes that, if not intended to be sarcastic, can only be highly-offensive to modern readers. Then again, he also deeply understands and eloquently conveys the poignant realities of life in an Empire held together as much by a racist sense of English entitlement as anything.

But I guess that’s the literary controversy that’ll never really be settled. Was Kipling a “racist”, a “chauvinist”? According to his own age… probably not. I’d say he was actually highly enlightened. But according to our time… yeah, he probably was. But then again, how many rich, white English dudes circa 1900 would pass that test? How many of any demographic group a century ago wouldn’t be considered highly-prejudiced according to our modern standards?

That’s the problem with writing – it immortalizes your words. We can judge Kipling now by a set of cultural values he probably never anticipated, and thus didn’t write for. An author has to know his audience, and Kipling knew his. And we weren’t it.

All that being said, I guess some things never change :P…

So it comes that Man, the coward, when he gathers to confer
With his fellow-braves in council, dare not leave a place for her
Where, at war with Life and Conscience, he uplifts his erring hands
To some God of Abstract Justice — which no woman understands.

And Man knows it! Knows, moreover, that the Woman that God gave him
Must command but may not govern — shall enthral but not enslave him.
And She knows, because She warns him, and Her instincts never fail,
That the Female of Her Species is more deadly than the Male.

Oh, and as for the whole “military imperialism” thing, that part of his poetry I actually enjoy – it’s like highbrow fantasy, a throwback to an age where men were men, and killed each other with savage regularity to prove it. Of course Kipling underlines his war poetry with bitter tragedy and frames it in the context of brutal slaughter, even if there’s often a shine of glory around the edges.

Anyhow, check it out. No matter what you think of him, Kipling is certainly a scribe for the ages.

“[Kipling] is still an author who can inspire passionate disagreement and his place in literary and cultural history is far from settled. But as the age of the European empires recedes, he is recognized as an incomparable, if controversial, interpreter of how empire was experienced. That, and an increasing recognition of his extraordinary narrative gifts, make him a force to be reckoned with.”
–Douglas Kerr

another day, another drama