REFUGEE BLUES BY WYSTAN HUGH AUDEN

REFUGEE BLUES 
WYSTAN HUGH AUDEN

Wystan Hugh Auden (1907–1973) was a student and later a Professor of Poetry at Oxford University. One of the most important poets of the century, he has published several collections of poems noted for their irony, compassion and wit. Although a modern poem, ‘Refugee Blues’ uses the ballad form of narration.

Say this city has ten million souls,

Some are living in mansions, some are living in holes:

Yet there’s no place for us, my dear, yet there’s no

place for us.

Once we had a country and we thought it fair,

Look in the atlas and you’ll find it there:

We cannot go there now, my dear, we cannot go there

now.

In the village churchyard there grows an old yew,

Every spring it blossoms anew:

Old passports can’t do that, my dear, old passports

can’t do that.

The consul banged the table and said:

‘If you’ve got no passport you’re officially dead’;

But we are still alive, my dear, but we are still alive.

Went to a committee; they offered me a chair;

Asked me politely to return next year;

But where shall we go today, my dear, but where shall

we go today?

Came to a public meeting; the speaker got up and said:

‘If we let them in, they will steal our daily bread’;

He was talking of you and me, my dear, he was talking

of you and me.

Thought I heard the thunder rumbling in the sky;

It was Hitler over Europe, saying: ‘they must die’;

We were in his mind, my dear, we were in his mind.

Saw a poodle in a jacket fastened with a pin;

Saw a door opened and a cat let in:

But they weren’t German Jews, my dear, but they

weren’t German Jews.

Went down the harbour and stood upon the quay,

Saw the fish swimming as if they were free:

Only ten feet away, my dear, only ten feet away.

Walked through a wood, saw the birds in the trees;

They had no politicians and sang at their ease:

They weren’t the human race, my dear, they weren’t

the human race.

Dreamed I saw a building with a thousand floors,

A thousand windows and a thousand doors;

Not one of them was ours, my dear, not one of them

was ours.

Went down to the station to catch the express,

Asked for two tickets to Happiness;

But every coach was full, my dear, every coach was

full.

Stood on a great plain in the falling snow;

Ten thousand soldiers marched to and fro:

Looking for you and me, my dear, looking for you and me.

FOR ELKANA BY NISSIM EZEKIEL

FOR ELKANA 
NISSIM EZEKIEL

Nissim Ezekiel (1924–2004) was born in Mumbai. He is today perhaps the best known Indian poet to have written in English. He had his education at Wilson College, Bombay and later at Birbeck College, London. A professor of American Literature at Bombay University, Ezekiel has written several poems and some plays. A proficient critic, Ezekiel lectured at a number of universities in the U.S.A. and the U.K.

The warm April evening

tempts us to the breezes

sauntering across the lawn.

We drag our chairs down

the stone steps and plant them there.

Unevenly, to sit or rather sprawl

in silence till the words begin to come.

My wife, as is her way,

surveys the scene, comments

on a broken window-pane.

Suggests a thing or two

that every husband in the neighbourhood

knows exactly how to do

except of course the man she loves

who happened to be me.

Unwilling to dispute

the obvious fact.

that she is always right,

I turn towards the more

attractive view that opens up

behind my eyes and shuts her out.

Her voice crawls up and down the lawn,

our son, who is seven,

hears it—and it reminds him of something.

He stands before us,

his small legs well apart,

crescent-moon-like chin uplifted

eyes hard and cold

to speak his truth

in masterly determination:

Mummy, I want my dinner, now.

Wife and husband in unusual rapport

state one unspoken thought:

Children Must be Disciplined.

She looks at me. I look away.

The son is waiting. In another second

he will repeat himself.

Wife wags a finger.

Firmly delivers verdict: Wait.

In five minutes I’ll serve you dinner.

No, says the little one,

not in five minutes, now.

I am hungry.

It occurs to me the boy is like his father.

I love him as I love myself.

Wait, darling, wait,

Mummy says, wait for five minutes

But, I am hungry now,

declaims the little bastard, in five minutes

I won’t be hungry any more.

This argument appeals to me.

Such a logician deserves his dinner straightaway.

My wife’s delightful laughter

holds the three of us together.

We rise and go into the house.

HAWK ROOSTING BY TED HUGHES

HAWK ROOSTING 

TED HUGHES

Ted Hughes (1930–1998) completed his education at Pembroke College, Cambridge. In 1956, he married the poet Sylvia Plath. He tried to make a living in America by teaching and writing. Finally, he returned to England. The most remarkable quality of Hughes’ poems is an intense and obsessive fascination with the world of birds and animals; and though essentially about birds, animals and fishes, his poems shock us with unusual phrases and violent images. The above poem is in the form of a monologue.

HAWK ROOSTING BY TED HUGHES

I sit in the top of the wood, my eyes

closed.

Inaction, no falsifying dream

Between my hooked head and hooked

feet:

Or in sleep rehearse perfect kills and eat.

The convenience of the high trees!

The air’s buoyancy and the sub’s ray

Are of advantage to me;

And the earth’s face upward for my inspection.

My feet are locked upon the rough bark.

It took the whole of Creation

To produce my foot, my each feather:

Now I hold Creation in my foot.

Or fly up, and revolve it all slowly-

I kill where I please because it is all mine.

There is no sophistry in my body:

My manners are tearing off heads.

The allotment of death.

For the one path of my flight is direct

Through the bones of the living.

No arguments assert my right.

The sun is behind me.

Nothing has changed since I began,

My eye has permitted no change.

I am going to keep things like this.

MOTHER TONGUE BY PADMA SACHDEV

MOTHER TONGUE 
PADMA SACHDEV

Padma Sachdev (born 1940) writes in her mother tongue Dogri and in Hindi. She has received many awards for her poetry, including the Sahitya Academi Award she received at the age of thirty for her first collection of Dogri poems. The above poem, translated from the original Dogri, bemoans the deprivation of Dogri of its native script Sharade, that evolved from the original Brahmi around the time Dogri developed. Once widely used by the people of all religions in the valley, Sharade, for various reasons, came to be replaced by the Persian script. Presently both Persian and Devanagri (Hindi and Urdu) scripts are used for Dogri, a language listed in Schedule VIII of the Constitution of India.

I approached a stem

Swinging on a reed

And asked him

To give me a quill.

Irritated, he said

I gave you one only the other day

A new one, what have you done with it?

Are you some sort of an accountant

With some Shah

Writing account books

Where you need a new pen

Every other day he asked.

No, I don’t work for a Shah

I said, but for a Shahni, very kind,

Very well off

And I am not the only one

Working for her

She has many servants

Ever ready to do her bidding

That Shahni is my mother tongue

Dogri

Give me, a quill, quickly

She must be looking for me

The reed cut off its hand

Gave it to me and said

Take it

I too am her servant.

THE WORLD IS TOO MUCH WITH US BY WILLIAM WORDSWORTH

THE WORLD IS TOO MUCH WITH US  
WILLIAM WORDSWORTH

William Wordsworth (1770-1850) spent most of his life in the Lake district of northern England, and the many hours that he spent wandering about the hills and woods led to the production of some of the finest poetry on nature. His work Lyrical Ballads, co-authored with Coleridge in 1798, is regarded as the beginning of the English Romantic Movement. He selected subjects from nature and rustic life. He held the view that the language of poetry should be simple and natural.

The World is too much with us; late and soon,

Getting and spending, we lay waste our powers:

Little we see in Nature that is ours;

We have given our hearts away, a sordid boon!

The Sea that bares her bosom to the moon;

The Winds that will be howling at all hours,

And are up-gathered now like sleeping flowers,

For this, for everything, we are out of tune;

It moves us not.—Great God! I’d rather be

A Pagan suckled in a creed outworn;

So might I, standing on this pleasant lea,

Have glimpses that would make me less forlorn;

Have sight of Proteus rising from the sea;

Or hear old Triton blow his wreathèd horn.

TELEPHONE CONVERSATION BY WOLE SOYINKA

TELEPHONE CONVERSATION 
WOLE SOYINKA

Wole Soyinka (born 1934), is a famous Nigerian poet and playwright. He was educated at the Government College in Ibadan, Nigeria and, later, at Leeds University, England, where he took a degree in English. He taught in the London schools and also worked in the Royal Court Theatre. He returned to Nigeria when he was about twenty-five. He has been one of the leading figures in Nigerian theatre, writing a number of successful plays and also leading a theatrical company. He is the first African to receive the Nobel Prize for literature (1986). His writings are known for their humour and satire.

The price seemed reasonable, location

Indifferent. The landlady swore she lived

Off premises. Nothing remained

But self-confession. ‘Madam,’ I warned,

‘I hate a wasted journey-I am African.’

Silence. Silenced transmission of

Pressurised good-breeding. Voice, when it came,

Lipstick coated, long gold-rolled

Cigarette-holder pipped. Caught I was, foully.

‘HOW DARK ?’... I had not misheard... ‘ARE YOU LIGHT

OR VERY DARK ?’ Button B. Button A. Stench

Of rancid breath of public hide-and-speak.

Red booth. Red pillar-box. Red double-tiered

Omnibus squelching tar. It was real! Shamed

By ill-mannered silence, surrender

Pushed dumbfounded to beg simplification.

Considerate she was, varying the emphasis-

‘ARE YOU DARK? OR VERY LIGHT?’ Revelation came.

‘You mean-like plain or milk chocolate?’

Her assent was clinical, crushing in its light

Impersonality. Rapidly, wave-length adjusted,

I chose. ‘West African sepia’-and as afterthought,

“down in my passport.” Silence for spectroscopic

Flight of fancy, till truthfulness changed her accent

Hard on the mouthpiece. ‘WHAT’S THAT?’ conceding

‘DON’T KNOW WHAT THAT IS.’ ‘Like brunette.’

‘THAT’S DARK, ISN’T IT?’ ‘Not altogether.

Facially, I am brunette, but madam, you should see

The rest of me. Palm of my hand, soles of my feet

Are a peroxide blonde. Friction, caused-

Foolishly madam-by sitting down, has turned

My bottom raven black-One moment madam!’-sensing

Her receiver rearing on the thunderclap

About my ears-‘Madam,’ I pleaded, ‘wouldn’t you rather See 

for yourself?’

COMING BY PHILIP LARKIN

COMING 

PHILIP LARKIN 

Philip Larkin (1922–1985) was born in Coventry, England. He is well-known as a leader of ‘Movement’ in English Poetry in the fifties. The principal works of Philip Larkin are The North Ship, The Less Deceived, The Whitsun Weddings and High Windows. His themes - love, change, disenchantment, the mystery, the inexplicableness of the poet’s survival and death’s inevitability - are universally liked by the readers. The above poem has been taken from the volume, The Less Deceived, which establishes a kinship with the environment.

On longer evenings,

Light, chill and yellow,

Bathes the serene

Foreheads of houses.

A thrush sings,

Laurel-surrounded

In the deep bare garden,

Its fresh-peeled voice

Astonishing the brickwork.

It will be spring soon,

It will be spring soon -

And I, whose childhood

Is a forgotten boredom,

Feel like a child

Who comes on a scene

Of adult reconciling,

And can understand nothing

But the unusual laughter,

And starts to be happy.