"Autobiographies of great nations are written in three manuscripts – a book of deeds, a book of words, and a book of art. Of the three, I would choose the latter as truest testimony." - Sir Kenneth Smith, Great Civilisations

"I must write each day without fail, not so much for the success of the work, as in order not to get out of my routine." - Leo Tolstoy

I have never believed that one should wait until one is inspired because I think the pleasures of not writing are so great that if you ever start indulging them you will never write again. - John Updike

"The life of every man is a diary in which he means to write one story, and writes another; and his humblest hour is when he compares the volume as it is with what he vowed to make it." - J.M. Barrie, Peter Pan

Poetry is the shadow cast by our streetlight imaginations." - Lawrence Ferlinghetti


[Note - If any article requires updating or correction please notate this in the comment section. Thank you. - res]


Monday, November 16, 2015

R.E. Slater - Birdsongs



Birdsongs
by R.E. Slater

                                                                                 1            Youth was a time of deep reflection
                                                                                2            of what was, and is, and was to come,
                                                                                3            but also a time of silently mourning
                                                                                4            each rapturous day passing its silence –
                                                                                5            full of doubts and fears, reprises and surprises.

                                                                                6            My boyhood seemed lost in a forever
                                                                                7            remaining special to me o'er long years of
                                                                                8            trial or failure, marking  an innocence
                                                                                9            and marvel I still cling to unsurrendered
                                                                             10            in fidelity to passing days of yore and legend.

                                                                              11            Where childlike wonder too easily arose
                                                                             12            against the lengthening shadows of each
                                                                             13            passing day listening its many birdsongs
                                                                             14            of voices heard beneath the cooling willows
                                                                             15            of my dark wander across its gathering lands.

                                                                             16            Beheld in the grey shadows of evening starlight
                                                                             17            singing in their choruses new rhythms and balances
                                                                             18            measuring time as an aloneness ranging thick about
                                                                             19            me, enfolding my soul within its whispering deep,
                                                                            20            considering all that I knew or wanted or wished.

                                                                             21            Whose long grey shadows cast dismal cold visages
                                                                            22            ensnared upon the tangles of old wizened trees stretching
                                                                            23            in their lengths across the grey hillsides of frolic I once loved,
                                                                            24            whether rainfall or sunshine, quiet warble or song, drinking
                                                                            25            deeply of its nurture upon my parched soul lost in the dark.

                                                                            26            Remembering early morning marches across wet summer
                                                                            27            meadows drenched in clovered dews, or burning grain fields
                                                                            28            boiling in the afternoon heats simmering beneath the loud din
                                                                            29            of humming insects seeking relief - to suddenly stop, upon my
                                                                            30            forage into their habitat, marked by broken fence lines fallen.

                                                                             31            Or happily chance upon the lone meadowlark bursting
                                                                            32            furiously upon the wing in heart-stopping flight, crying
                                                                            33            its tormented surprise in increasing heart-pounding
                                                                            34            crescendos, when all the world stood still, and I in it,
                                                                            35            overcome by its wondrous mysteries so new yet ancient.

                                                                            36            And it was here where my gazing revelations finally beheld
                                                                            37            across verdant grassland’s tumbling in the gentle breezes,
                                                                            38            or lifting thunderstorms dispelled of their black rage by the
                                                                            39            gay breaks of warming sunlight cleaving the stricken hillsides,
                                                                           40            finding in happy testament large mud puddles to be splashed.

                                                                             41            But sometimes revelation came by the small thing
                                                                            42            when slipping into aged barns o'ercome by weary time
                                                                            43            housing silent, ancient clutter, to find rays of streaming
                                                                           44            sunlight slipping through dirty window panes bestirring
                                                                            45            rising dust particles in slow circle, lift, and gentle fall.

                                                                           46            So that now, as an old man, come full circle from
                                                                            47            youth to youth, into another age full of fury and awe,
                                                                           48            lived in a wounded world still too little understood,
                                                                           49            gained by years of long study, then loss, stripped of
                                                                            50            the many good things once so familiar and near.

                                                                             51            Into a worn world needing a touch of the divine
                                                                            52            bestirring its sober wanderings in lifting wonder
                                                                            53            like childhood gazes upon youth’s early fellowships -
                                                                            54            so fair, so beautiful to behold, beyond the onslaught
                                                                            55            of life’s pained hardships striving its fey beauties.

                                                                            56            There, in my heart, I still carry this altar’d peace
                                                                            57            held deep within the recesses of a gathering soul
                                                                            58            so in love with life’s mysteries, its majesties, and
                                                                            59            glories, unmuted by human hand yet impassable
                                                                           60            to all but the kneeling supplicant come to bow.

                                                                             61            It is this inner child now guides my long years
                                                                            62            as both friend and companion, giving rest to
                                                                            63            an aged heart amidst divine bounteous gifts
                                                                           64            still heard playing across the quieting winds
                                                                            65            of lifting birdsongs awakening each new dawn.

                                                                           66            And it is in the burnt fields of my heart I still
                                                                            67            recall morning’s sublime choruses nurturing
                                                                           68            a presence against all coming later to haunt me
                                                                           69            when evening descends its shadows splashing
                                                                            70            my soul in starlit wonders streaming the earth.

                                                                             71            Sensing a new day’s rhythms and balances arising
                                                                            72            across a weary evening’s lengthening grey shadows
                                                                            73            ushered from afar by the woodland owl's awakening
                                                                            74            greeting starlight and moonlight gathering together
                                                                            75            rising fixed in the cradling heavens far, far above.

                                                                            76            To see the heavenly lights reborn in stupored gaze
                                                                            77            unmoved like each new dawn daring to draw breath
                                                                            78            so still, so alone, my memory of those glorious days
                                                                            79            when youth awakened to creation’s glorious songs
                                                                           80            heralding legends from afar within a parched soul.

                                                                             81            Indwelt by days of fellowship with heaven and earth,
                                                                            82            rung in on evening vespers to days of wine and song,
                                                                            83            woven within life's goodness and pain, bemoaning
                                                                           84            nothing lasting - but all that is true and good - made
                                                                            85            eternal in the heavens by everlasting decree and will.

                                                                           86            These are the guideposts and compasses I seek
                                                                            87            drawn daily from a wandering spirit casting afar
                                                                           88            to cast a spell like the spells I’ve been cast within
                                                                           89            overwhelming the senses, overtaking the spirit,
                                                                           90            steadfastly yielded to the renewing graces of life.


R.E. Slater
October 30, 2015
revised November 3, 16, 2015
revised January 7, 2016; May 29, 2017

@copyright R.E. Slater Publications
all rights reserved







Thursday, October 22, 2015

R.E. Slater - A Soulful Solaris





Hang Massive - Once Again, 2011
(hang drum duo ) ( HD )




A Soulful Solaris
by R.E. Slater


Unbeing's ensnaring folds slip silently by
spanning vast churning emptied voids
filling tymphonous timelike strands
like so many aethereal filaments haunting
endless infinity's dread immortal hands
hollowed of praise but not of glory.

Heedless we rise to time's weary laments
unconsciously awakening body with soul
feeding frail spirits' spiritual hungers
too easily sated ruined pains and cheap wines
eucharist to gallowed death's spinning wheels
connecting nothingness to present hopelessness.

Refusing release to neverland's turbulent colors
painted on canvases rupturing prismatic dreams
swirling warily around aethers bursting with life
lived eons ago devoid burdensome burdens
affixed solaris' gentle rhythms wooing home
before toxic trances formed our hypnotic selves.

A solaris promising deep glorious peace
against chafing ills presently bourne
become nether haven to worn spirits within
seeking soul's rest nigh long journey's trek
emptied of life but not of its stubborn will
nor of hope nor fairest love's bursting songs
sirens to life everlasting without start or end.


- R.E. Slater
October 22, 2015; rev. October 26, 2015

@copyright R.E. Slater Publications
all rights reserved



Tuesday, October 20, 2015

Edgar Allan Poe - The Raven



Edgar Allan Poe
1809–1849



Christopher Walken reads "The Raven" by Edgar Allan Poe
with English subtitles.





The Raven
BY EDGAR ALLAN POE


Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered, weak and weary,
Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore—
    While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping,
As of some one gently rapping, rapping at my chamber door.
“’Tis some visitor,” I muttered, “tapping at my chamber door—
            Only this and nothing more.”

    Ah, distinctly I remember it was in the bleak December;
And each separate dying ember wrought its ghost upon the floor.
    Eagerly I wished the morrow;—vainly I had sought to borrow
    From my books surcease of sorrow—sorrow for the lost Lenore—
For the rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore—
            Nameless here for evermore.

    And the silken, sad, uncertain rustling of each purple curtain
Thrilled me—filled me with fantastic terrors never felt before;
    So that now, to still the beating of my heart, I stood repeating
    “’Tis some visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door—
Some late visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door;—
            This it is and nothing more.”

    Presently my soul grew stronger; hesitating then no longer,
“Sir,” said I, “or Madam, truly your forgiveness I implore;
    But the fact is I was napping, and so gently you came rapping,
    And so faintly you came tapping, tapping at my chamber door,
That I scarce was sure I heard you”—here I opened wide the door;—
            Darkness there and nothing more.

    Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there wondering, fearing,
Doubting, dreaming dreams no mortal ever dared to dream before;
    But the silence was unbroken, and the stillness gave no token,
    And the only word there spoken was the whispered word, “Lenore?”
This I whispered, and an echo murmured back the word, “Lenore!”—
            Merely this and nothing more.

    Back into the chamber turning, all my soul within me burning,
Soon again I heard a tapping somewhat louder than before.
    “Surely,” said I, “surely that is something at my window lattice;
      Let me see, then, what thereat is, and this mystery explore—
Let my heart be still a moment and this mystery explore;—
            ’Tis the wind and nothing more!”

    Open here I flung the shutter, when, with many a flirt and flutter,
In there stepped a stately Raven of the saintly days of yore;
    Not the least obeisance made he; not a minute stopped or stayed he;
    But, with mien of lord or lady, perched above my chamber door—
Perched upon a bust of Pallas just above my chamber door—
            Perched, and sat, and nothing more.

Then this ebony bird beguiling my sad fancy into smiling,
By the grave and stern decorum of the countenance it wore,
“Though thy crest be shorn and shaven, thou,” I said, “art sure no craven,
Ghastly grim and ancient Raven wandering from the Nightly shore—
Tell me what thy lordly name is on the Night’s Plutonian shore!”
            Quoth the Raven “Nevermore.”

    Much I marvelled this ungainly fowl to hear discourse so plainly,
Though its answer little meaning—little relevancy bore;
    For we cannot help agreeing that no living human being
    Ever yet was blessed with seeing bird above his chamber door—
Bird or beast upon the sculptured bust above his chamber door,
            With such name as “Nevermore.”

    But the Raven, sitting lonely on the placid bust, spoke only
That one word, as if his soul in that one word he did outpour.
    Nothing farther then he uttered—not a feather then he fluttered—
    Till I scarcely more than muttered “Other friends have flown before—
On the morrow he will leave me, as my Hopes have flown before.”
            Then the bird said “Nevermore.”

    Startled at the stillness broken by reply so aptly spoken,
“Doubtless,” said I, “what it utters is its only stock and store
    Caught from some unhappy master whom unmerciful Disaster
    Followed fast and followed faster till his songs one burden bore—
Till the dirges of his Hope that melancholy burden bore
            Of ‘Never—nevermore’.”

    But the Raven still beguiling all my fancy into smiling,
Straight I wheeled a cushioned seat in front of bird, and bust and door;
    Then, upon the velvet sinking, I betook myself to linking
    Fancy unto fancy, thinking what this ominous bird of yore—
What this grim, ungainly, ghastly, gaunt, and ominous bird of yore
            Meant in croaking “Nevermore.”

    This I sat engaged in guessing, but no syllable expressing
To the fowl whose fiery eyes now burned into my bosom’s core;
    This and more I sat divining, with my head at ease reclining
    On the cushion’s velvet lining that the lamp-light gloated o’er,
But whose velvet-violet lining with the lamp-light gloating o’er,
            She shall press, ah, nevermore!

    Then, methought, the air grew denser, perfumed from an unseen censer
Swung by Seraphim whose foot-falls tinkled on the tufted floor.
    “Wretch,” I cried, “thy God hath lent thee—by these angels he hath sent thee
    Respite—respite and nepenthe from thy memories of Lenore;
Quaff, oh quaff this kind nepenthe and forget this lost Lenore!”
            Quoth the Raven “Nevermore.”

    “Prophet!” said I, “thing of evil!—prophet still, if bird or devil!—
Whether Tempter sent, or whether tempest tossed thee here ashore,
    Desolate yet all undaunted, on this desert land enchanted—
    On this home by Horror haunted—tell me truly, I implore—
Is there—is there balm in Gilead?—tell me—tell me, I implore!”
            Quoth the Raven “Nevermore.”

    “Prophet!” said I, “thing of evil!—prophet still, if bird or devil!
By that Heaven that bends above us—by that God we both adore—
    Tell this soul with sorrow laden if, within the distant Aidenn,
    It shall clasp a sainted maiden whom the angels name Lenore—
Clasp a rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore.”
            Quoth the Raven “Nevermore.”

    “Be that word our sign of parting, bird or fiend!” I shrieked, upstarting—
“Get thee back into the tempest and the Night’s Plutonian shore!
    Leave no black plume as a token of that lie thy soul hath spoken!
    Leave my loneliness unbroken!—quit the bust above my door!
Take thy beak from out my heart, and take thy form from off my door!”
            Quoth the Raven “Nevermore.”

    And the Raven, never flitting, still is sitting, still is sitting
On the pallid bust of Pallas just above my chamber door;
    And his eyes have all the seeming of a demon’s that is dreaming,
    And the lamp-light o’er him streaming throws his shadow on the floor;
And my soul from out that shadow that lies floating on the floor
            Shall be lifted—nevermore!



References

Wikipedia - "The Raven"


Poetry Foundation - Biography of Poet







Thursday, October 15, 2015

Chinese Book of Songs - Ripe Plums Are Falling





ripe plums are falling
now there are only five
may a fine lover come for me
while there is still time

ripe plums are falling
now there are only three
may a fine lover come for me
while there is still time

ripe plums are falling
I gather them in a shallow basket
may a fine lover come for me
tell me his name

- Chinese Book of Songs




Here is a poem sung to the measured rhythms of harvest where plums drop one by one from the vines of birth until, at the last, each as died, full of age and days of youth. So then is a young lover's wistfulness spent upon the measures of the day wooing the plums, the trees, the air, to tell her where she might find her lover. A love which aches in her heart ripened to the point of being tasted, eaten, devoured, until heart and soul are betrothed in time and being and satisfaction. But with each passing youthful wist wished upon the hands of time the young lover's aching prayer is not answered. The lover's name not known. And there, alone, heaves the lover's broken, heavy heart torn in the throes of love with none to love but only whispers upon the wind settling upon the dying echoes of day's dusks. And as night falls so does love's hopes and dreams spent of wasted passion withered upon the vine with none to love in the imaginations of the heart broken of hope and dream. - r.e. slater


References

Dr. Robert Churchill's Handbook for the Study of Easter Literatures: Book of Songs -


Crossing Delancey: Ripe Plums Are Falling






One of the five Confucian classics, The Book of Songs (Shijing) is the oldest collection of poetry in world literature and the finest treasure of traditional songs left from antiquity. Where the other Confucian classics treat “outward things: deeds, moral precepts, the way the world works,” as Stephen Owen tells us in his foreword, The Book of Songs is “the classic of the human heart and the human mind.” - Amazon Book Description









Monday, August 31, 2015

Rudyard Kipling - A School Song (Prelude to "Stalky & Co.")




"Let us now praise famous men"--
Men of little showing-- 
For their work continueth, 
And their work continueth, 
Broad and deep continues,
Greater then their knowing!

Western wind and open surge
Took us from our mothers--
Flung us on a naked shore
(Twelve bleak houses by the shore.
Seven summers by the shore! )
'Mid two hundred brothers.

There we met with famous men
Set in office o'er us;
And they beat on us with rods-- 
Faithfully with many rods--
Daily beat us on with rods,
For the love they bore us!

Out of Egypt unto Troy--
Over Himalaya--
Far and sure our bands have gone--
Hy-Brazil or Babylon,
Islands of the Southern Run,
And Cities of Cathaia!

And we all praise famous men--
Ancients of the College;
For they taught us common sense--
Tried to teach us common sense--
Truth and God's Own Common Sense,
Which is more than knowledge!

Each degree of Latitude
Strung about Creation
Seeth one or more of us
(Of one muster each of us),
Diligent in that he does,
Keen in his vocation.

This we learned from famous men,
Knowing not its uses,
When they showed, in daily work--
Man must finish off his work--
Right or wrong, his daily work--
And without excuses.

Servant of the Staff and chain,
Mine and fuse and grapnel--
Some, before the face of Kings,
Stand before the face of Kings;
Bearing gifts to divers Kings--
Gifts of case and shrapnel.

This we learned from famous men
Teaching in our borders,
Who declared it was best,
Safest, easiest, and best--
Expeditious, wise, and best--
To obey your orders.

Some beneath the further stars
Bear the greater burden:
Set to serve the lands they rule,
(Save he serve no man may rule ),
Serve and love the lands they rule;
Seeking praise nor guerdon.

This we learned from famous men,
Knowing not we learned it.
Only, as the years went by--
Lonely, as the years went by--
Far from help as years went by,
Plainer we discerned it.

Wherefore praise we famous men
From whose bays we borrow--
They that put aside To-day--
All the joys of their To-day--
And with toil of their To-day
Bought for us To-morrow!

Bless and praise we famous men--
Men of little showing--
For their work continueth,
And their work continueth,
Broad and deep continueth,
Great beyond their knowing!



* * * * * * * * * * * *



Sources of Poem

Who is the speaker in "Let us now praise famous men..."?


I. First Answer

"A poem of scorn towards British Imperialism and of private praise for those worthies accepting their empire's call to arms against the unworthies of liberty who inadvertantly surplanted one kind of oppression (national) for another kind of oppression (international). Especially as this poem relates to Kipling's loss of his son in World War I accompanied by his disillusionment with war and his later work in the criticism and construction of international peace communication against Isolationism, Bolshevism (Communism), and the promotion of classic liberal (political) ideals of reconstruction and reconciliation between nations." - r.e. slater


II. Second Answer

It comes from Ecclesiasticus - a.k.a. Sirach - a book included in the Biblical Apocrypha by some denomations of Christianity. The speaker is Ben Sira, the nominal author (or maybe compiler).



III. Third (Best) Answer:

The anthem originates in the Apocrypha, Sirach [or Ecclesiasticus] 44:1. The author is given in the text as "Jesus the son of Sirach of Jerusalem." This is not, of course, Jesus of Nazareth. The names Jesus and Joshua can be used interchangeably, depending on dialect; another source gives "Simon, son of Joshua, son of Eleazar ben Sira" (1).

Here is the anthem as it begins in the Apocrypha. Portions were transferred from the Apocrypha into the English Book of Common Prayer. 

Sirach 44:
1: Let us now praise famous men, and our fathers that begat us. 
2: The Lord hath wrought great glory by them through his great power from the beginning. 
3: Such as did bear rule in their kingdoms, men renowned for their power, giving counsel by their understanding, and declaring prophecies: 
4: Leaders of the people by their counsels, and by their knowledge of learning meet for the people, wise and eloquent are their instructions: 
5: Such as found out musical tunes, and recited verses in writing: 
6: Rich men furnished with ability, living peaceably in their habitations: 
7: All these were honoured in their generations, and were the glory of their times. 
8: There be of them, that have left a name behind them, that their praises might be reported. 
9: And some there be, which have no memorial; who are perished, as though they had never been; and are become as though they had never been born; and their children after them. 
10: But these were merciful men, whose righteousness hath not been forgotten. 
11: With their seed shall continually remain a good inheritance, and their children are within the covenant. 
12: Their seed standeth fast, and their children for their sakes. 
13: Their seed shall remain for ever, and their glory shall not be blotted out. 
14: Their bodies are buried in peace; but their name liveth for evermore. 
15: The people will tell of their wisdom, and the congregation will shew forth their praise. (2) 


Kipling prefaced "Stalky & Co." with his own version, which is a school song. As such it would be sung by the student body: 

"Let us now praise famous men"-- 
Men of little showing-- 
For their work continueth, 
And their work continueth, 
Greater than their knowing. 

Western wind and open surge 
Tore us from our mothers; 
Flung us on a naked shore 
(Twelve bleak houses by the shore! 
Seven summers by the shore!) 
'Mid two hundred brothers. 

There we met with famous men 
Set in office o'er us. 
And they beat on us with rods-- 
Faithfully with many rods-- 
Daily beat us on with rods-- 
For the love they bore us! 

Out of Egypt unto Troy-- 
Over Himalaya-- 
Far and sure our bands have gone-- 
Hy-Brasil or Babylon, 
Islands of the Southern Run, 
And cities of Cathaia! 

And we all praise famous men-- 
Ancients of the College; 
For they taught us common sense--- 
Tried to teach us common sense-- 
Truth and God's Own Common Sense 
Which is more than knowledge! 

Each degree of Latitude 
Strung about Creation 
Seeth one (or more) of us, 
(Of one muster all of us-- 
Of one master all of us--) 
Keen in his vocation. 

This we learned from famous men 
Knowing not its uses 
When they showed in daily work 
Man must finish off his work-- 
Right or wrong, his daily work-- 
And without excuses. 

Servants of the staff and chain, 
Mine and fuse and grapnel-- 
Some before the face of Kings, 
Stand before the face of Kings; 
Bearing gifts to divers Kings-- 
Gifts of Case and Shrapnel. 

This we learned from famous men 
Teaching in our borders. 
Who declare'd it was best, 
Safest, easiest and best-- 
Expeditious, wise and best-- 
To obey your orders. 

Some beneath the further stars 
Bear the greater burden. 
Set to serve the lands they rule, 
(Save he serve no man may rule) 
Serve and love the lands they rule; 
Seeking praise nor guerdon. 

This we learned from famous men 
Knowing not we learned it. 
Only, as the years went by-- 
Lonely, as the years went by-- 
Far from help as years went by 
Plainer we discerned it. 

Wherefore praise we famous men 
Prom whose bays we borrow-- 
They that put aside Today-- 
All the joys of their Today-- 
And with toil of their Today 
Bought for us Tomorrow! 

Bless and praise we famous men 
Men of little showing! 
For their work continueth 
And their work continueth 
Broad and deep continueth 
Great beyond their knowing! (3) 


["Let Us Now Praise Famous Men" is also the title of a splendid book by James Agee and photographer Walker Evans.]


Source(s):

3. Kipling, Rudyard. "Stalky & Co." Downloaded from <http://www.gutenberg.org/ >
anobium625 · 6 years ago


* * * * * * * * * * * *


Biography of Rudyard Kipling
30 December 1865 – 18 January 1936





Poetry Foundation Excerpt

"Kipling wrote many other works during the periods that he produced his children's classics. He was actively involved in the Boer War in South Africa as a war correspondent, and in 1917 he was assigned the post of 'Honorary Literary Advisor' to the Imperial War Graves Commission—the same year that his son John, who had been missing in action for two years, was confirmed dead. In his last years, explains O'Toole, he became even more withdrawn and bitter, losing much of his audience because of his unpopular political views—such as compulsory military service—and a "cruelty and desire for vengeance [in his writings] that his detractors detested." Modern critical opinions, O'Toole continues, "are contradictory because Kipling was a man of contradictions. He had enormous sympathy for the lower classes ... yet distrusted all forms of democratic government." He declined awards offered him by his own government, yet accepted others from foreign nations. He finally succumbed to a painful illness early in 1936. "He remains an intriguing personality and writer," O'Toole explains, and "for all his limitations," declares Blackburn, "he was a gifted and courageous and honest man.""

Wikipedia Excerpts

Devon

By September 1896, the Kiplings were in Torquay, Devon, on the southwestern coast of England, in a hillside home overlooking the English Channel. Although Kipling did not much care for his new house, whose design, he claimed, left its occupants feeling dispirited and gloomy, he managed to remain productive and socially active.[17]

Kipling was now a famous man, and in the previous two or three years, had increasingly been making political pronouncements in his writings. The Kiplings had welcomed their first son, John, in August 1897. Kipling had begun work on two poems, "Recessional" (1897) and "The White Man's Burden" (1899) which were to create controversy when published. Regarded by some as anthems for enlightened and duty-bound empire-building (that captured the mood of the Victorian age), the poems equally were regarded by others as propaganda for brazenfacedimperialism and its attendant racial attitudes; still others saw irony in the poems and warnings of the perils of empire.[17]


Take up the White Man's burden—
Send forth the best ye breed—
Go, bind your sons to exile
To serve your captives' need;
To wait, in heavy harness,
On fluttered folk and wild—
Your new-caught sullen peoples,
Half devil and half child.

—The White Man's Burden[42]

There was also foreboding in the poems, a sense that all could yet come to naught.[43]


Far-called, our navies melt away;
On dune and headland sinks the fire:
Lo, all our pomp of yesterday
Is one with Nineveh and Tyre!
Judge of the Nations, spare us yet.
Lest we forget—lest we forget!

—Recessional[44]

A prolific writer during his time in Torquay, he also wrote Stalky & Co., a collection of school stories (born of his experience at the United Services College in Westward Ho!) whose juvenile protagonists displayed a know-it-all, cynical outlook on patriotism and authority. According to his family, Kipling enjoyed reading aloud stories from Stalky & Co. to them, and often went into spasms of laughter over his own jokes.[17]


Visits to South Africa

In early 1898 the Kiplings travelled to South Africa for their winter holiday, thus beginning an annual tradition which (excepting the following year) was to last until 1908. They always stayed in "The Woolsack", a house on Cecil Rhodes' estate at Groote Schuur (and now a student residence for the University of Cape Town); it was within walking distance of Rhodes' mansion.[45]


With his new reputation as Poet of the Empire, Kipling was warmly received by some of the most influential politicians of the Cape Colony, including Rhodes, Sir Alfred Milner, and Leander Starr Jameson. Kipling cultivated their friendship and came to admire the men and their politics. The period 1898–1910 was crucial in the history of South Africa and included the Second Boer War (1899–1902), the ensuing peace treaty, and the 1910 formation of the Union of South Africa. Back in England, Kipling wrote poetry in support of the British cause in the Boer War and on his next visit to South Africa in early 1900, he became a correspondent for The Friend newspaper in Bloemfontein, which had been commandeered by Lord Roberts for British troops.[46]

Although his journalistic stint was to last only two weeks, it was Kipling's first work on a newspaper staff since he left The Pioneer in Allahabad more than ten years earlier.[17] At The Friendhe made lifelong friendships with Perceval Landon, H. A. Gwynne and others.[47] He also wrote articles published more widely expressing his views on the conflict.[48] Kipling penned an inscription for the Honoured Dead Memorial (Siege memorial) in Kimberley.

During this period Kipling travelled throughout South Africa and told stories of these places through his poetry, such as the well known poem "Lichtenberg" which relates the story of a combatant and his journey towards death in a foreign land. Trooper Aberline’s sacrifice was to have an impact on the Boers and his legacy went far beyond his rusting cross in the Lichtenburg cemetery which lies close to that of Edith Mathews.[49]

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Death of son
[cf. Words to my Son, "IF"]

Kipling actively encouraged his young son to go to war. Kipling's son John died in the First World War, at the Battle of Loos in September 1915, at age 18. John had initially wanted to join the Royal Navy, but having had his application turned down after a failed medical examination due to poor eyesight, he opted to apply for military service as an Army officer. But again, his eyesight was an issue during the medical examination. In fact, he tried twice to enlist, but was rejected. His father had been lifelong friends with Lord Roberts, commander-in-chief of the British Army, and colonel of the Irish Guards, and at Rudyard's request, John was accepted into the Irish Guards.[65]

He was sent to Loos two days into the battle in a reinforcement contingent. He was last seen stumbling through the mud blindly, screaming in agony after an exploding shell had ripped his face apart. A body identified as his was not found until 1992, although that identification has been challenged.[69][70]

After his son's death, Kipling wrote, "If any question why we died/ Tell them, because our fathers lied." It is speculated that these words may reveal his feelings of guilt at his role in getting John a commission in the Irish Guards.[71] Others such as English professor Tracy Bilsing contend that the line is referring to Kipling's disgust that British leaders failed to learn the lessons of the Boer War, and were not prepared for the struggle with Germany in 1914 with the "lie" of the "fathers" being that the British Army was prepared for any war before 1914 when it was not.[72]

John's death has been linked to Kipling's 1916 poem "My Boy Jack", notably in the play My Boy Jack and its subsequent television adaptation, along with the documentary Rudyard Kipling: A Remembrance Tale. However, the poem was originally published at the head of a story about the Battle of Jutland and appears to refer to a death at sea; the 'Jack' referred to is probably a generic 'Jack Tar'.[73] Kipling was said to help assuage his grief over the death of his son through reading the novels of Jane Austen aloud to his wife and daughter.[74]

During the war, he wrote a booklet The Fringes of the Fleet[75] containing essays and poems on various nautical subjects of the war. Some of the poems were set to music by English composer Edward Elgar.

Kipling became friends with a French soldier whose life had been saved in the First World War when his copy of Kim, which he had in his left breast pocket, stopped a bullet. The soldier presented Kipling with the book (with bullet still embedded) and his Croix de Guerre as a token of gratitude. They continued to correspond, and when the soldier, Maurice Hammoneau, had a son, Kipling insisted on returning the book and medal.[76]

On 1 August 1918, a poem—"The Old Volunteer"—appeared under his name in The Times. The next day he wrote to the newspaper to disclaim authorship, and a correction appeared. Although The Times employed a private detective to investigate (and the detective appears to have suspected Kipling himself of being the author), the identity of the hoaxer was never established.[77]