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Tell Me the Truth about Love
Had he been writing now, W.H. Auden might well have penned a poem entitled "Tell me the Truth About Publishing", for the publication of this special, short collection was directly inspired by the runaway success of the 1994 film Four Weddings and a Funeral in which one of Auden's poems was recited.
Stretching from October 1932 to June 1948, the poems may have been more revelatory had they been arranged chronologically but commercial demands have placed "Funeral Blues", forevermore known as the poem in the movie, at the end, while "Lullaby", arguably a better poem, is tucked away inside. The period partly coincides with Auden going to America in January 1939 and "Calypso" pulses with the rhythm of a train taking him to his New York rendez-vous at Grand Central. "For there in the middle of that waiting-hall, / Should be standing the one that I love best of all."
Many of the poems have the same jolly air and belting rhythm and indeed were written as cabaret songs. "At Last the Secret is Out" must have been tongue-in-cheek considering Auden's sexuality, yet the cover of this slim tome is resolutely heterosexual. But for dipping into Auden's work, this volume serves its purpose.
"Funeral Blues" captures the sense of disbelief that the world has the audacity to continue after one has been bereaved. The Cole Porter tone of flippancy and humour--"Put crepe bows round the white necks of the public doves", makes the understated grief all the more poignant. He declares the emblems of romance redundant. "The stars are not wanted now; put out every one." He swings from the grandiose to the mundane and in doing so, sweeps the reader up in the aura of all-emcompassing love. "He was my North, my South, my East and West, / My working week and my Sunday rest."
"Lullaby" retains immense mystery and power. Here he evokes the preciousness of one night spent with someone who isn't his. "Let the living creature lie, / Mortal, guilty, but to me, / The entirely beautiful." It leaves much unexplained, yet quite particular, so that it draws one back again and again: "Lay your sleeping head, my love, / Human on my faithless arm..." What an astonishing opener. --Cherry Smyth
Stretching from October 1932 to June 1948, the poems may have been more revelatory had they been arranged chronologically but commercial demands have placed "Funeral Blues", forevermore known as the poem in the movie, at the end, while "Lullaby", arguably a better poem, is tucked away inside. The period partly coincides with Auden going to America in January 1939 and "Calypso" pulses with the rhythm of a train taking him to his New York rendez-vous at Grand Central. "For there in the middle of that waiting-hall, / Should be standing the one that I love best of all."
Many of the poems have the same jolly air and belting rhythm and indeed were written as cabaret songs. "At Last the Secret is Out" must have been tongue-in-cheek considering Auden's sexuality, yet the cover of this slim tome is resolutely heterosexual. But for dipping into Auden's work, this volume serves its purpose.
"Funeral Blues" captures the sense of disbelief that the world has the audacity to continue after one has been bereaved. The Cole Porter tone of flippancy and humour--"Put crepe bows round the white necks of the public doves", makes the understated grief all the more poignant. He declares the emblems of romance redundant. "The stars are not wanted now; put out every one." He swings from the grandiose to the mundane and in doing so, sweeps the reader up in the aura of all-emcompassing love. "He was my North, my South, my East and West, / My working week and my Sunday rest."
"Lullaby" retains immense mystery and power. Here he evokes the preciousness of one night spent with someone who isn't his. "Let the living creature lie, / Mortal, guilty, but to me, / The entirely beautiful." It leaves much unexplained, yet quite particular, so that it draws one back again and again: "Lay your sleeping head, my love, / Human on my faithless arm..." What an astonishing opener. --Cherry Smyth
40 pages, Paperback
First published January 1, 1994
22 people are currently reading
2253 people want to read
About the author
W.H. Auden
617 books1,062 followersPoems, published in such collections as
Look, Stranger!
(1936) and
The Shield of Achilles
(1955), established importance of British-American writer and critic Wystan Hugh Auden in 20th-century literature.
In and near Birmingham, he developed in a professional middle-class family. He attended English independent schools and studied at Christ church, Oxford. From 1927, Auden and Christopher Isherwood maintained a lasting but intermittent sexual friendship despite briefer but more intense relations with other men. Auden passed a few months in Berlin in 1928 and 1929.
He then spent five years from 1930 to 1935, teaching in English schools and then traveled to Iceland and China for books about his journeys. People noted stylistic and technical achievement, engagement with politics, morals, love, and religion, and variety in tone, form and content. He came to wide attention at the age of 23 years in 1930 with his first book, Poems ; The Orators followed in 1932.
Three plays in collaboration with Christopher Isherwood in 1935 to 1938 built his reputation in a left-wing politics.
People best know this Anglo for love such as "Funeral Blues," for political and social themes, such as "September 1, 1939," for culture and psychology, such as The Age of Anxiety , and for religion, such as For the Time Being and "Horae Canonicae." In 1939, partly to escape a liberal reputation, Auden moved to the United States. Auden and Christopher Isherwood maintained a lasting but intermittent sexual friendship to 1939. In 1939, Auden fell in lust with Chester Kallman and regarded their relation as a marriage.
From 1941, Auden taught in universities. This relationship ended in 1941, when Chester Kallman refused to accept the faithful relation that Auden demanded, but the two maintained their friendship.
Auden taught in universities through 1945. His work, including the long For the Time Being and The Sea and the Mirror , in the 1940s focused on religious themes. He attained citizenship in 1946.
The title of his long The Age of Anxiety , a popular phrase, described the modern era; it won him the Pulitzer Prize in 1947. From 1947, he wintered in New York and summered in Ischia. From 1947, Auden and Chester Kallman lived in the same house or apartment in a non-sexual relation and often collaborated on opera libretti, such as The Rake's Progress for music of Igor Stravinsky until death of Auden.
Occasional visiting professorships followed in the 1950s. From 1956, he served as professor at Oxford. He wintered in New York and summered in Ischia through 1957. From 1958, he wintered usually in New York and summered in Kirchstetten, Austria.
He served as professor at Oxford to 1961; his popular lectures with students and faculty served as the basis of his prose The Dyer's Hand in 1962.
Auden, a prolific prose essayist, reviewed political, psychological and religious subjects, and worked at various times on documentary films, plays, and other forms of performance. Throughout his controversial and influential career, views on his work ranged from sharply dismissive, treating him as a lesser follower of William Butler Yeats and T.S. Eliot, to strongly affirmative, as claim of Joseph Brodsky of his "greatest mind of the twentieth century."
He wintered in Oxford in 1972/1973 and summered in Kirchstetten, Austria, until the end of his life.
After his death, films, broadcasts, and popular media enabled people to know and ton note much more widely "Funeral Blues," "Musée des Beaux Arts," "Refugee Blues," "The Unknown Citizen," and "September 1, 1939," t
In and near Birmingham, he developed in a professional middle-class family. He attended English independent schools and studied at Christ church, Oxford. From 1927, Auden and Christopher Isherwood maintained a lasting but intermittent sexual friendship despite briefer but more intense relations with other men. Auden passed a few months in Berlin in 1928 and 1929.
He then spent five years from 1930 to 1935, teaching in English schools and then traveled to Iceland and China for books about his journeys. People noted stylistic and technical achievement, engagement with politics, morals, love, and religion, and variety in tone, form and content. He came to wide attention at the age of 23 years in 1930 with his first book, Poems ; The Orators followed in 1932.
Three plays in collaboration with Christopher Isherwood in 1935 to 1938 built his reputation in a left-wing politics.
People best know this Anglo for love such as "Funeral Blues," for political and social themes, such as "September 1, 1939," for culture and psychology, such as The Age of Anxiety , and for religion, such as For the Time Being and "Horae Canonicae." In 1939, partly to escape a liberal reputation, Auden moved to the United States. Auden and Christopher Isherwood maintained a lasting but intermittent sexual friendship to 1939. In 1939, Auden fell in lust with Chester Kallman and regarded their relation as a marriage.
From 1941, Auden taught in universities. This relationship ended in 1941, when Chester Kallman refused to accept the faithful relation that Auden demanded, but the two maintained their friendship.
Auden taught in universities through 1945. His work, including the long For the Time Being and The Sea and the Mirror , in the 1940s focused on religious themes. He attained citizenship in 1946.
The title of his long The Age of Anxiety , a popular phrase, described the modern era; it won him the Pulitzer Prize in 1947. From 1947, he wintered in New York and summered in Ischia. From 1947, Auden and Chester Kallman lived in the same house or apartment in a non-sexual relation and often collaborated on opera libretti, such as The Rake's Progress for music of Igor Stravinsky until death of Auden.
Occasional visiting professorships followed in the 1950s. From 1956, he served as professor at Oxford. He wintered in New York and summered in Ischia through 1957. From 1958, he wintered usually in New York and summered in Kirchstetten, Austria.
He served as professor at Oxford to 1961; his popular lectures with students and faculty served as the basis of his prose The Dyer's Hand in 1962.
Auden, a prolific prose essayist, reviewed political, psychological and religious subjects, and worked at various times on documentary films, plays, and other forms of performance. Throughout his controversial and influential career, views on his work ranged from sharply dismissive, treating him as a lesser follower of William Butler Yeats and T.S. Eliot, to strongly affirmative, as claim of Joseph Brodsky of his "greatest mind of the twentieth century."
He wintered in Oxford in 1972/1973 and summered in Kirchstetten, Austria, until the end of his life.
After his death, films, broadcasts, and popular media enabled people to know and ton note much more widely "Funeral Blues," "Musée des Beaux Arts," "Refugee Blues," "The Unknown Citizen," and "September 1, 1939," t
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October 28, 2025
‘All the poems I have written were written for love’.
(W.H.Auden)
As our local library essentially focuses its foreign poetry collection on (mostly flimsy) collections of love poetry, it seems like almost every encounter with a (non-Dutch) poet unapologetically first acquaintances me with a glimpse into their treatment of love – this another bilingual edition of ten poems on the apparently inexhaustible theme, as pretty obvious from the title poem, one of my favourites from this collection.
And a delectable collection it is, loveable, vivid and frisky like a kitten, ‘soft as eiderdown fluff’, wittily playing with symbols of romantic love, languid when resting of playing (Lullaby), but also high-spirited and even in its profound musings on the nature of love, the supremacy of time, on loss and mourning, full of life.
O Tell Me The Truth About Love
Some say love's a little boy,
And some say it's a bird,
Some say it makes the world go round,
Some say that's absurd,
And when I asked the man next door,
Who looked as if he knew,
His wife got very cross indeed,
And said it wouldn't do.
Does it look like a pair of pyjamas,
Or the ham in a temperance hotel?
Does its odour remind one of llamas,
Or has it a comforting smell?
Is it prickly to touch as a hedge is,
Or soft as eiderdown fluff?
Is it sharp or quite smooth at the edges?
O tell me the truth about love.
Our history books refer to it
In cryptic little notes,
It's quite a common topic on
The Transatlantic boats;
I've found the subject mentioned in
Accounts of suicides,
And even seen it scribbled on
The backs of railway guides.
Does it howl like a hungry Alsatian,
Or boom like a military band?
Could one give a first-rate imitation
On a saw or a Steinway Grand?
Is its singing at parties a riot?
Does it only like Classical stuff?
Will it stop when one wants to be quiet?
O tell me the truth about love.
I looked inside the summer-house;
It wasn't even there;
I tried the Thames at Maidenhead,
And Brighton's bracing air.
I don't know what the blackbird sang,
Or what the tulip said;
But it wasn't in the chicken-run,
Or underneath the bed.
Can it pull extraordinary faces?
Is it usually sick on a swing?
Does it spend all its time at the races,
or fiddling with pieces of string?
Has it views of its own about money?
Does it think Patriotism enough?
Are its stories vulgar but funny?
O tell me the truth about love.
When it comes, will it come without warning
Just as I'm picking my nose?
Will it knock on my door in the morning,
Or tread in the bus on my toes?
Will it come like a change in the weather?
Will its greeting be courteous or rough?
Will it alter my life altogether?
O tell me the truth about love.
Tones and moods vary and flow natural like waves along with the rhyming over a spectrum of love related experiences, from the bliss and excitement of (new) love (Calypso), the expression of gratefulness having found love (Song), erotic delight, harmony and infidelity (Lullaby), unrequited love (Johnny), until the grieving for the loss of love and finally of the beloved (Funeral Blues). Four of the poems happen to be conceived as cabaret songs (grouped by Auden under the heading ‘Four Cabaret songs for Miss Hedli Anderson’), the musical qualities of the stanza’s are exquisite.
As I Walked Out One Evening
As I walked out one evening,
Walking down Bristol Street,
The crowds upon the pavement
Were fields of harvest wheat.
And down by the brimming river
I heard a lover sing
Under an arch of the railway:
'Love has no ending.
'I'll love you, dear, I'll love you
Till China and Africa meet,
And the river jumps over the mountain
And the salmon sing in the street.
'I'll love you till the ocean
Is folded and hung up to dry
And the seven stars go squawking
Like geese about the sky.
'The years shall run like rabbits,
For in my arms I hold
The Flower of the Ages,
And the first love of the world.'
But all the clocks in the city
Began to whirr and chime:
'O let not Time deceive you,
You cannot conquer Time.
'In burrows of the Nightmare
Where Justice naked is,
Time watches from the shadow
And coughs when you would kiss.
'In headaches and in worry
Vaguely life leaks away,
And Time will have his fancy
To-morrow or to-day.
'Into many a green valley
Drifts the appalling snow;
Time breaks the threaded dances
And the diver's brilliant bow.
'O plunge your hands in water,
Plunge them in up to the wrist;
Stare, stare in the basin
And wonder what you've missed.
'The glacier knocks in the cupboard,
The desert sighs in the bed,
And the crack in the tea-cup opens
A lane to the land of the dead.
'Where the beggars raffle the banknotes
And the Giant is enchanting to Jack,
And the Lily-white Boy is a Roarer,
And Jill goes down on her back.
'O look, look in the mirror,
O look in your distress;
Life remains a blessing
Although you cannot bless.
'O stand, stand at the window
As the tears scald and start;
You will love your crooked neighbour
With your crooked heart.'
It was late, late in the evening,
The lovers they were gone;
The clocks had ceased their chiming,
And the deep river ran on.
Auden doesn’t shun the impermanence of love and his take on it is wise as well as soothing. Love’s happiness and bliss is fragile, but ‘Eye and knocking heart may bless, Find our mortal world enough’. The transient character of love doesn’t dilute the beauty of it, nor does the indifference of the world vis-à vis love’s ephemerality or the inevitable heartache when it is no more.
This miniature collection was published in the slipstream of the release of the film Four Weddings and a Funeral, in which Auden’s poem ‘Stop all the clocks’ (aka ‘Funeral Blues’ – evidently present in this collection – features prominently and poignantly in the film’s funeral scene – a scene I imagine having impacted quite some bookworms of my age, so that re-reading it took me down on memory lane and the moment my best friend cajoled me to see it in the cinema a few weeks before her wedding, in our own little private celebration of the upcoming event (usually a rom-com sceptic, I confess I was nonetheless charmed by it and thoroughly moved by the funeral scene – the undeniable power of the Auden poem – as were my pretty unsentimental teenagers when we watched the film together recently).
‘Thousands have lived without love, not one without water’, Auden wrote lapidary.
Love is the salt of life – maybe one doesn’t need much, it is possibly even not indispensable as one can live on without it, however it might be quite essential to flavour.
A wonderful documentary on the role of love in the poet’s life, peppered by some of his poems (of which a few in this collection) can be found here.
(W.H.Auden)
As our local library essentially focuses its foreign poetry collection on (mostly flimsy) collections of love poetry, it seems like almost every encounter with a (non-Dutch) poet unapologetically first acquaintances me with a glimpse into their treatment of love – this another bilingual edition of ten poems on the apparently inexhaustible theme, as pretty obvious from the title poem, one of my favourites from this collection.
And a delectable collection it is, loveable, vivid and frisky like a kitten, ‘soft as eiderdown fluff’, wittily playing with symbols of romantic love, languid when resting of playing (Lullaby), but also high-spirited and even in its profound musings on the nature of love, the supremacy of time, on loss and mourning, full of life.
O Tell Me The Truth About Love
Some say love's a little boy,
And some say it's a bird,
Some say it makes the world go round,
Some say that's absurd,
And when I asked the man next door,
Who looked as if he knew,
His wife got very cross indeed,
And said it wouldn't do.
Does it look like a pair of pyjamas,
Or the ham in a temperance hotel?
Does its odour remind one of llamas,
Or has it a comforting smell?
Is it prickly to touch as a hedge is,
Or soft as eiderdown fluff?
Is it sharp or quite smooth at the edges?
O tell me the truth about love.
Our history books refer to it
In cryptic little notes,
It's quite a common topic on
The Transatlantic boats;
I've found the subject mentioned in
Accounts of suicides,
And even seen it scribbled on
The backs of railway guides.
Does it howl like a hungry Alsatian,
Or boom like a military band?
Could one give a first-rate imitation
On a saw or a Steinway Grand?
Is its singing at parties a riot?
Does it only like Classical stuff?
Will it stop when one wants to be quiet?
O tell me the truth about love.
I looked inside the summer-house;
It wasn't even there;
I tried the Thames at Maidenhead,
And Brighton's bracing air.
I don't know what the blackbird sang,
Or what the tulip said;
But it wasn't in the chicken-run,
Or underneath the bed.
Can it pull extraordinary faces?
Is it usually sick on a swing?
Does it spend all its time at the races,
or fiddling with pieces of string?
Has it views of its own about money?
Does it think Patriotism enough?
Are its stories vulgar but funny?
O tell me the truth about love.
When it comes, will it come without warning
Just as I'm picking my nose?
Will it knock on my door in the morning,
Or tread in the bus on my toes?
Will it come like a change in the weather?
Will its greeting be courteous or rough?
Will it alter my life altogether?
O tell me the truth about love.
Tones and moods vary and flow natural like waves along with the rhyming over a spectrum of love related experiences, from the bliss and excitement of (new) love (Calypso), the expression of gratefulness having found love (Song), erotic delight, harmony and infidelity (Lullaby), unrequited love (Johnny), until the grieving for the loss of love and finally of the beloved (Funeral Blues). Four of the poems happen to be conceived as cabaret songs (grouped by Auden under the heading ‘Four Cabaret songs for Miss Hedli Anderson’), the musical qualities of the stanza’s are exquisite.
As I Walked Out One Evening
As I walked out one evening,
Walking down Bristol Street,
The crowds upon the pavement
Were fields of harvest wheat.
And down by the brimming river
I heard a lover sing
Under an arch of the railway:
'Love has no ending.
'I'll love you, dear, I'll love you
Till China and Africa meet,
And the river jumps over the mountain
And the salmon sing in the street.
'I'll love you till the ocean
Is folded and hung up to dry
And the seven stars go squawking
Like geese about the sky.
'The years shall run like rabbits,
For in my arms I hold
The Flower of the Ages,
And the first love of the world.'
But all the clocks in the city
Began to whirr and chime:
'O let not Time deceive you,
You cannot conquer Time.
'In burrows of the Nightmare
Where Justice naked is,
Time watches from the shadow
And coughs when you would kiss.
'In headaches and in worry
Vaguely life leaks away,
And Time will have his fancy
To-morrow or to-day.
'Into many a green valley
Drifts the appalling snow;
Time breaks the threaded dances
And the diver's brilliant bow.
'O plunge your hands in water,
Plunge them in up to the wrist;
Stare, stare in the basin
And wonder what you've missed.
'The glacier knocks in the cupboard,
The desert sighs in the bed,
And the crack in the tea-cup opens
A lane to the land of the dead.
'Where the beggars raffle the banknotes
And the Giant is enchanting to Jack,
And the Lily-white Boy is a Roarer,
And Jill goes down on her back.
'O look, look in the mirror,
O look in your distress;
Life remains a blessing
Although you cannot bless.
'O stand, stand at the window
As the tears scald and start;
You will love your crooked neighbour
With your crooked heart.'
It was late, late in the evening,
The lovers they were gone;
The clocks had ceased their chiming,
And the deep river ran on.
Auden doesn’t shun the impermanence of love and his take on it is wise as well as soothing. Love’s happiness and bliss is fragile, but ‘Eye and knocking heart may bless, Find our mortal world enough’. The transient character of love doesn’t dilute the beauty of it, nor does the indifference of the world vis-à vis love’s ephemerality or the inevitable heartache when it is no more.
This miniature collection was published in the slipstream of the release of the film Four Weddings and a Funeral, in which Auden’s poem ‘Stop all the clocks’ (aka ‘Funeral Blues’ – evidently present in this collection – features prominently and poignantly in the film’s funeral scene – a scene I imagine having impacted quite some bookworms of my age, so that re-reading it took me down on memory lane and the moment my best friend cajoled me to see it in the cinema a few weeks before her wedding, in our own little private celebration of the upcoming event (usually a rom-com sceptic, I confess I was nonetheless charmed by it and thoroughly moved by the funeral scene – the undeniable power of the Auden poem – as were my pretty unsentimental teenagers when we watched the film together recently).
‘Thousands have lived without love, not one without water’, Auden wrote lapidary.
Love is the salt of life – maybe one doesn’t need much, it is possibly even not indispensable as one can live on without it, however it might be quite essential to flavour.
A wonderful documentary on the role of love in the poet’s life, peppered by some of his poems (of which a few in this collection) can be found here.
September 25, 2025
FUNERAL BLUES
W.H. Auden and Christopher Isherwood, 1937
Le gemme sono incastrate, una all'inizio e una alla fine, a racchiudere questa piccola meraviglia che scorre via in fretta dalle mani, ma per fortuna rimane a lungo nel cuore.
Sopra ogni verso, come fare a non struggersi quando si sente un tale inno d’amore?
Fermate tutti gli orologi, isolate il telefono,
fate tacere il cane con un osso succulento,
chiudete i pianoforte…
La bellezza inizia sin dal titolo.
Simon Callow in ”Quattro matrimoni e un funerale” di Mike Newell, 1994.
Ben due insulsi film casalinghi hanno tentato in tutti i modi di rovinare l’incanto di Auden, uno omonimo a inizio terzo millennio, l’altro, introducendo nel titolo una piccola variazione, molto di recente. E adesso, se su Google si cerca il libro, è quasi più facile trovare i film.
Però, per fortunata compensazione, c’è un altro film, questo inglese, che gli ha reso omaggio, e gli ha forse portato celebrità. Eccolo:
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4S3T3...
W.H. Auden and Christopher Isherwood, 1937
Le gemme sono incastrate, una all'inizio e una alla fine, a racchiudere questa piccola meraviglia che scorre via in fretta dalle mani, ma per fortuna rimane a lungo nel cuore.
Sopra ogni verso, come fare a non struggersi quando si sente un tale inno d’amore?
Fermate tutti gli orologi, isolate il telefono,
fate tacere il cane con un osso succulento,
chiudete i pianoforte…
La bellezza inizia sin dal titolo.
Simon Callow in ”Quattro matrimoni e un funerale” di Mike Newell, 1994.
Ben due insulsi film casalinghi hanno tentato in tutti i modi di rovinare l’incanto di Auden, uno omonimo a inizio terzo millennio, l’altro, introducendo nel titolo una piccola variazione, molto di recente. E adesso, se su Google si cerca il libro, è quasi più facile trovare i film.
Però, per fortunata compensazione, c’è un altro film, questo inglese, che gli ha reso omaggio, e gli ha forse portato celebrità. Eccolo:
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4S3T3...
February 11, 2025
W. H. Auden’s Tell Me The Truth About Love is a small, pocket size collection of 15 poems that includes one of the greatest (and saddest) love poems of all time:
Funeral Blues
W. H. Auden
Stop all the clocks, cut off the telephone,
Prevent the dog from barking with a juicy bone,
Silence the pianos and with muffled drum
Bring out the coffin, let the mourners come.
Let aeroplanes circle moaning overhead
Scribbling on the sky the message ‘He is Dead’.
Put crepe bows round the white necks of the public doves,
Let the traffic policemen wear black cotton gloves.
He was my North, my South, my East and West,
My working week and my Sunday rest,
My noon, my midnight, my talk, my song;
I thought that love would last forever: I was wrong.
The stars are not wanted now; put out every one,
Pack up the moon and dismantle the sun,
Pour away the ocean and sweep up the wood;
For nothing now can ever come to any good.
This is an incredible reading of the poem in Four Weddings and a Funeral:
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=DDXWc...
But maybe you wanted a happier poem about love?
Tell Me The Truth about Love
W. H. Auden
Some say love's a little boy,
And some say it's a bird,
Some say it makes the world go round,
Some say that's absurd,
And when I asked the man next door,
Who looked as if he knew,
His wife got very cross indeed,
And said it wouldn't do.
Does it look like a pair of pyjamas,
Or the ham in a temperance hotel?
Does its odour remind one of llamas,
Or has it a comforting smell?
Is it prickly to touch as a hedge is,
Or soft as eiderdown fluff?
Is it sharp or quite smooth at the edges?
O tell me the truth about love.
Our history books refer to it
In cryptic little notes,
It's quite a common topic on
The Transatlantic boats;
I've found the subject mentioned in
Accounts of suicides,
And even seen it scribbled on
The backs of railway guides.
Does it howl like a hungry Alsatian,
Or boom like a military band?
Could one give a first-rate imitation
On a saw or a Steinway Grand?
Is its singing at parties a riot?
Does it only like Classical stuff?
Will it stop when one wants to be quiet?
O tell me the truth about love.
I looked inside the summer-house;
It wasn't even there;
I tried the Thames at Maidenhead,
And Brighton's bracing air.
I don't know what the blackbird sang,
Or what the tulip said;
But it wasn't in the chicken-run,
Or underneath the bed.
Can it pull extraordinary faces?
Is it usually sick on a swing?
Does it spend all its time at the races,
or fiddling with pieces of string?
Has it views of its own about money?
Does it think Patriotism enough?
Are its stories vulgar but funny?
O tell me the truth about love.
When it comes, will it come without warning
Just as I'm picking my nose?
Will it knock on my door in the morning,
Or tread in the bus on my toes?
Will it come like a change in the weather?
Will its greeting be courteous or rough?
Will it alter my life altogether?
O tell me the truth about love.
Set to music:
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=wOFdk...
Funeral Blues
W. H. Auden
Stop all the clocks, cut off the telephone,
Prevent the dog from barking with a juicy bone,
Silence the pianos and with muffled drum
Bring out the coffin, let the mourners come.
Let aeroplanes circle moaning overhead
Scribbling on the sky the message ‘He is Dead’.
Put crepe bows round the white necks of the public doves,
Let the traffic policemen wear black cotton gloves.
He was my North, my South, my East and West,
My working week and my Sunday rest,
My noon, my midnight, my talk, my song;
I thought that love would last forever: I was wrong.
The stars are not wanted now; put out every one,
Pack up the moon and dismantle the sun,
Pour away the ocean and sweep up the wood;
For nothing now can ever come to any good.
This is an incredible reading of the poem in Four Weddings and a Funeral:
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=DDXWc...
But maybe you wanted a happier poem about love?
Tell Me The Truth about Love
W. H. Auden
Some say love's a little boy,
And some say it's a bird,
Some say it makes the world go round,
Some say that's absurd,
And when I asked the man next door,
Who looked as if he knew,
His wife got very cross indeed,
And said it wouldn't do.
Does it look like a pair of pyjamas,
Or the ham in a temperance hotel?
Does its odour remind one of llamas,
Or has it a comforting smell?
Is it prickly to touch as a hedge is,
Or soft as eiderdown fluff?
Is it sharp or quite smooth at the edges?
O tell me the truth about love.
Our history books refer to it
In cryptic little notes,
It's quite a common topic on
The Transatlantic boats;
I've found the subject mentioned in
Accounts of suicides,
And even seen it scribbled on
The backs of railway guides.
Does it howl like a hungry Alsatian,
Or boom like a military band?
Could one give a first-rate imitation
On a saw or a Steinway Grand?
Is its singing at parties a riot?
Does it only like Classical stuff?
Will it stop when one wants to be quiet?
O tell me the truth about love.
I looked inside the summer-house;
It wasn't even there;
I tried the Thames at Maidenhead,
And Brighton's bracing air.
I don't know what the blackbird sang,
Or what the tulip said;
But it wasn't in the chicken-run,
Or underneath the bed.
Can it pull extraordinary faces?
Is it usually sick on a swing?
Does it spend all its time at the races,
or fiddling with pieces of string?
Has it views of its own about money?
Does it think Patriotism enough?
Are its stories vulgar but funny?
O tell me the truth about love.
When it comes, will it come without warning
Just as I'm picking my nose?
Will it knock on my door in the morning,
Or tread in the bus on my toes?
Will it come like a change in the weather?
Will its greeting be courteous or rough?
Will it alter my life altogether?
O tell me the truth about love.
Set to music:
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=wOFdk...
September 9, 2023
Dieci poesie che hanno il suono di un grido disperato e appassionato.
Cos’è questo mistero chiamato “Amore?
” Quando viene, verrà senza avvisare,
proprio mentre mi sto frugando il naso?
Busserà la mattina alla mia porta,
o là sul bus mi pesterà un piede?
Accadrà come quando cambia il tempo?
Sarà cortese o spiccio il suo saluto?
Darà una svolta a tutta la mia vita?
La verità, vi prego, sull’amore.”
Qualcuno sa.
Qualcuno custodisce il segreto.
Il poeta lascia scorrazzare le parole perché fermino i ricordi.
Il dolore dell’abbandono che va consolato e spronato a ripiegare la mappa della desolazione perchè
” Ciò che è vivo può amare: perché ancora
piegarsi alla sconfitta
con le braccia incrociate? “ [“Sotto un abietto salice]
L’ansia di ritrovarsi dopo un distacco [Calypso]e la dolcezza di una coccola [Ninnananna] dove anima e corpo non hanno confini e poi il commiato nel distacco definitivo che la morte impone.
Funeral Blues
Stop all the clocks, cut off the telephone,
Prevent the dog from barking with a juicy bone,
Silence the pianos and with muffled drum
Bring out the coffin, let the mourners come.
Let aeroplanes circle moaning overhead
Scribbling on the sky the message He Is Dead,
Put crêpe bows round the white necks of the public doves,
Let the traffic policemen wear black cotton gloves.
He was my North, my South, my East and West,
My working week and my Sunday rest,
My noon, my midnight, my talk, my song;
I thought that love would last for ever: I was wrong.
The stars are not wanted now: put out every one;
Pack up the moon and dismantle the sun;
Pour away the ocean and sweep up the wood;
For nothing now can ever come to any good.
------------------------------------
Blues in memoria
Fermate tutti gli orologi, isolate il telefono,
fate tacere il cane con un osso succulento,
chiudete i pianoforti, e tra un rullio smorzato
portate fuori il feretro, si accostino i dolenti.
Incrocino aeroplani lamentosi lassù
e scrivano sul cielo il messaggio Lui È Morto,
allacciate nastri di crespo al collo bianco dei piccioni,
i vigili si mettano guanti di tela nera.
Lui era il mio Nord, il mio Sud, il mio Est ed Ovest,
la mia settimana di lavoro e il mio riposo la domenica,
il mio mezzodì, la mezzanotte,
la mia lingua, il mio canto;
pensavo che l’amore fosse eterno: e avevo torto.
Non servon più le stelle: spegnetele anche tutte;
imballate la luna, smontate pure il sole;
svuotatemi l’oceano e sradicate il bosco;
perché ormai più nulla può giovare.
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vlqdy...
Cos’è questo mistero chiamato “Amore?
” Quando viene, verrà senza avvisare,
proprio mentre mi sto frugando il naso?
Busserà la mattina alla mia porta,
o là sul bus mi pesterà un piede?
Accadrà come quando cambia il tempo?
Sarà cortese o spiccio il suo saluto?
Darà una svolta a tutta la mia vita?
La verità, vi prego, sull’amore.”
Qualcuno sa.
Qualcuno custodisce il segreto.
Il poeta lascia scorrazzare le parole perché fermino i ricordi.
Il dolore dell’abbandono che va consolato e spronato a ripiegare la mappa della desolazione perchè
” Ciò che è vivo può amare: perché ancora
piegarsi alla sconfitta
con le braccia incrociate? “ [“Sotto un abietto salice]
L’ansia di ritrovarsi dopo un distacco [Calypso]e la dolcezza di una coccola [Ninnananna] dove anima e corpo non hanno confini e poi il commiato nel distacco definitivo che la morte impone.
Funeral Blues
Stop all the clocks, cut off the telephone,
Prevent the dog from barking with a juicy bone,
Silence the pianos and with muffled drum
Bring out the coffin, let the mourners come.
Let aeroplanes circle moaning overhead
Scribbling on the sky the message He Is Dead,
Put crêpe bows round the white necks of the public doves,
Let the traffic policemen wear black cotton gloves.
He was my North, my South, my East and West,
My working week and my Sunday rest,
My noon, my midnight, my talk, my song;
I thought that love would last for ever: I was wrong.
The stars are not wanted now: put out every one;
Pack up the moon and dismantle the sun;
Pour away the ocean and sweep up the wood;
For nothing now can ever come to any good.
------------------------------------
Blues in memoria
Fermate tutti gli orologi, isolate il telefono,
fate tacere il cane con un osso succulento,
chiudete i pianoforti, e tra un rullio smorzato
portate fuori il feretro, si accostino i dolenti.
Incrocino aeroplani lamentosi lassù
e scrivano sul cielo il messaggio Lui È Morto,
allacciate nastri di crespo al collo bianco dei piccioni,
i vigili si mettano guanti di tela nera.
Lui era il mio Nord, il mio Sud, il mio Est ed Ovest,
la mia settimana di lavoro e il mio riposo la domenica,
il mio mezzodì, la mezzanotte,
la mia lingua, il mio canto;
pensavo che l’amore fosse eterno: e avevo torto.
Non servon più le stelle: spegnetele anche tutte;
imballate la luna, smontate pure il sole;
svuotatemi l’oceano e sradicate il bosco;
perché ormai più nulla può giovare.
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vlqdy...
March 16, 2021
We do not summarize a collection of poems. The texts speak of love, death, loneliness and happiness, with simplicity and emotion. One of the lyrics is worth knowing in the film Four Weddings and a Funeral. The character played by Hugh Grant reads a text during one of the ceremonies. But well beyond this Hollywood notoriety, there is a depth and an unsettling beauty in Auden's poems.
January 2, 2020
Finally, I have discovered some romantic poetry that I can personally read and tolerate! This short collection of fifteen poems/song lyrics written by Auden over the years (one of the poems also in a Hollywood smash movie!) was not only quick and fun, I felt fulfilled by the final page. I would say if you would like to dip your toes into reviewing poetry, grab a copy of Tell Me The Truth About Love.
February 24, 2020
Questa non è una recensione (io non le scrivo, le mie sono solo riflessioni di lettura che, per brevità chiamo recensioni). Questo è un invito a farsi un piccolo regalo.
"La verità, vi prego, sull'amore."
Una preghiera accorata. Un sussurro, quasi.
Un'implorazione, che oscilla tra la profonda tristezza e la gioia piena.
Apre la raccolta, un'introduzione di Iosif Brodskij che invita a imparare l'inglese, per chi già non lo sapesse, per leggere Auden in originale.
Dieci poesie, scritte negli anni trenta e ancora così attuali, da leggere più e più volte, da assaporarle piano, lasciandole decantare dentro di sé.
“Quando viene, verrà senza avvisare,
proprio mentre mi sto frugando il naso?
Busserà la mattina alla mia porta,
o là sul bus mi pesterà un piede?
Accadrà come quando cambia il tempo?
Sarà cortese o spiccio il suo saluto?
Darà una svolta a tutta la mia vita?
La verità, vi prego, sull’amore.”
"La verità, vi prego, sull'amore."
Una preghiera accorata. Un sussurro, quasi.
Un'implorazione, che oscilla tra la profonda tristezza e la gioia piena.
Apre la raccolta, un'introduzione di Iosif Brodskij che invita a imparare l'inglese, per chi già non lo sapesse, per leggere Auden in originale.
Dieci poesie, scritte negli anni trenta e ancora così attuali, da leggere più e più volte, da assaporarle piano, lasciandole decantare dentro di sé.
“Quando viene, verrà senza avvisare,
proprio mentre mi sto frugando il naso?
Busserà la mattina alla mia porta,
o là sul bus mi pesterà un piede?
Accadrà come quando cambia il tempo?
Sarà cortese o spiccio il suo saluto?
Darà una svolta a tutta la mia vita?
La verità, vi prego, sull’amore.”
January 21, 2019
Ninnananna
Posa il capo assopito, amore mio, umano
sul mio braccio senza fede; tempo e febbri
avvampano e cancellano ogni bellezza
individuale, via dai bambini pensosi, e poi
la tomba attesta che effimero è il bambino:
ma finché spunti il giorno mi rimanga tra le
braccia la viva creatura, mortale sì,
colpevole, eppure
per me il bello nella sua interezza.
Anima e corpo non hanno confini: agli
amanti che giacciono sul suo tollerante
declivio incantato
in preda al deliquio ricorrente, solenne
la visione manda Venere di soprannaturale
armonia,
di universale amore e speranza;
mentre un’astratta intuizione accende, in
mezzo ai ghiacciai e tra le rupi, dell’eremita
l’estasi carnale.
Passano sicurezza e fedeltà
allo scoccare della mezzanotte come le
vibrazioni di campana, e forsennati alla
moda lanciano il loro pedantesco, uggioso
grido: il costo fino all’ultimo centesimo - sta
scritto in tutte le temute carte -
andrà pagato, ma da questa notte non un
solo bisbiglio, né un pensiero, non un bacio
o uno sguardo sia perduto.
Bellezza muore, e mezzanotte, ed estasi:
che i venti dell’alba, mentre lievi spirano
intorno al tuo capo sognante, mostrino un
giorno di accoglienza tale che occhio e
cuore pulsante ne gioiscano, paghi di un
mondo, il nostro, che è mortale; meriggi di
arsura ti ritrovino nutrito dei poteri
involontari, notti di oltraggio ti lascino
andare sorvegliato da ogni umano amore.
Posa il capo assopito, amore mio, umano
sul mio braccio senza fede; tempo e febbri
avvampano e cancellano ogni bellezza
individuale, via dai bambini pensosi, e poi
la tomba attesta che effimero è il bambino:
ma finché spunti il giorno mi rimanga tra le
braccia la viva creatura, mortale sì,
colpevole, eppure
per me il bello nella sua interezza.
Anima e corpo non hanno confini: agli
amanti che giacciono sul suo tollerante
declivio incantato
in preda al deliquio ricorrente, solenne
la visione manda Venere di soprannaturale
armonia,
di universale amore e speranza;
mentre un’astratta intuizione accende, in
mezzo ai ghiacciai e tra le rupi, dell’eremita
l’estasi carnale.
Passano sicurezza e fedeltà
allo scoccare della mezzanotte come le
vibrazioni di campana, e forsennati alla
moda lanciano il loro pedantesco, uggioso
grido: il costo fino all’ultimo centesimo - sta
scritto in tutte le temute carte -
andrà pagato, ma da questa notte non un
solo bisbiglio, né un pensiero, non un bacio
o uno sguardo sia perduto.
Bellezza muore, e mezzanotte, ed estasi:
che i venti dell’alba, mentre lievi spirano
intorno al tuo capo sognante, mostrino un
giorno di accoglienza tale che occhio e
cuore pulsante ne gioiscano, paghi di un
mondo, il nostro, che è mortale; meriggi di
arsura ti ritrovino nutrito dei poteri
involontari, notti di oltraggio ti lascino
andare sorvegliato da ogni umano amore.
October 31, 2020
“Há quem diga que o amor é um rapazinho,
E quem diga que ele é um pássaro;
Há quem diga que faz o mundo girar,
E quem diga que é um absurdo,
E quando perguntei ao meu vizinho,
Que tinha ar de quem sabia,
A sua mulher zangou-se mesmo muito,
E disse que isso não servia para nada.
Será parecido com uns pijamas,
Ou com um presunto num hotel de abstinência?
O seu odor faz lembrar o das lamas,
Ou tem um cheiro agradável?
É áspero ao tacto como uma sebe espinhosa
Ou é fofo como um edredão de penas?
É cortante ou muito polido nos seus bordos?
Ah, diz-me a verdade acerca do amor.
(…)”
July 10, 2020
109th book of 2020.
I read 'Funeral Blues', like many, in school a long time ago. I do think it is a brilliant poem. I liked some of the others in here, but on the whole I found them simple. Not to say anyone could have written them better, I have no doubt it is hard to construct such simple and, at times, sad poems, but for me they lacked any internal 'stirring'. Poems can move me very greatly, and these did not.
I read 'Funeral Blues', like many, in school a long time ago. I do think it is a brilliant poem. I liked some of the others in here, but on the whole I found them simple. Not to say anyone could have written them better, I have no doubt it is hard to construct such simple and, at times, sad poems, but for me they lacked any internal 'stirring'. Poems can move me very greatly, and these did not.
June 28, 2015
Funeral Blues
Stop all the clocks, cut off the telephone,
Prevent the dog from barking with a juicy bone,
Silence the pianos and with muffled drum
Bring out the coffin, let the mourners come.
Let aeroplanes circle moaning overhead
Scribbling on the sky the message He Is Dead,
Put crêpe bows round the white necks of the public doves,
Let the traffic policemen wear black cotton gloves.
He was my North, my South, my East and West,
My working week and my Sunday rest,
My noon, my midnight, my talk, my song;
I thought that love would last forever: I was wrong.
The stars are not wanted now: put out every one;
Pack up the moon and dismantle the sun;
Pour away the ocean and sweep up the wood;
For nothing now can ever come to any good.
Stop all the clocks, cut off the telephone,
Prevent the dog from barking with a juicy bone,
Silence the pianos and with muffled drum
Bring out the coffin, let the mourners come.
Let aeroplanes circle moaning overhead
Scribbling on the sky the message He Is Dead,
Put crêpe bows round the white necks of the public doves,
Let the traffic policemen wear black cotton gloves.
He was my North, my South, my East and West,
My working week and my Sunday rest,
My noon, my midnight, my talk, my song;
I thought that love would last forever: I was wrong.
The stars are not wanted now: put out every one;
Pack up the moon and dismantle the sun;
Pour away the ocean and sweep up the wood;
For nothing now can ever come to any good.
November 23, 2024
« Quando viene, verrà senza avvisare, proprio mentre mi sto frugando il naso?
Busserà la mattina alla mia porta, o là sul bus mi pesterà un piede?
Accadrà come quando cambia il tempo?
Sarà cortese o spiccio il suo saluto?
Darà una svolta a tutta la mia vita?
La verità, vi prego, sull'amore».
3 ⭐️ secondo me come dice, nell’introduzione, Iosif Brodskij, studiate l’inglese e leggete Auden in originale perché rendono molto di più, e rendono più accettabile questa vita.
Busserà la mattina alla mia porta, o là sul bus mi pesterà un piede?
Accadrà come quando cambia il tempo?
Sarà cortese o spiccio il suo saluto?
Darà una svolta a tutta la mia vita?
La verità, vi prego, sull'amore».
3 ⭐️ secondo me come dice, nell’introduzione, Iosif Brodskij, studiate l’inglese e leggete Auden in originale perché rendono molto di più, e rendono più accettabile questa vita.
February 18, 2017
Inesplicabile a parole, un frammento d'amore puro e emozionante.
July 6, 2017
Questa non è una vera e propria recensione, perché credo che queste poche pagine vadano lette in ogni caso e vadano comprese; ma, personalmente, credo che solo lo spirito con cui si leggono possa definirne o meno la piacevolezza.
Poche pagine, pochi versi, tutti accomunati dal senso di perdita, dal senso di sfinimento, di sconfitta e di conflitto che si portava appresso il periodo storico durante il quale sono stati composti (1932-1939).
Non vi ho trovato risposte, solamente tanta tristezza.
(…)
Quando viene, verrà senza avvisare,
proprio mentre mi sto grattando il naso?
Busserà la mattina alla mia porta,
o là sull’autobus mi pesterà un piede?
Arriverà come il cambiamento improvviso del tempo?
Sarà cortese o spiccio il suo saluto?
Darà una svolta a tutta la mia vita?
Ditemi la verità, vi prego, sull’amore.
Dopo le poche pagine di questo libro mi sono quasi sentita in dovere di rispondere alla sua poesia più rappresentativa, quella che dà il titolo all’opera:
Quando arriva ti distrugge,
ti spinge, ti sfigura, ti stravolge
e nel bel mezzo del volteggio
ti abbandona nel silenzio.
Che ognuno senta sulla pelle, nella carne,
il supplizio della scelta.
Che la solitudine regni nell’animo dell’innamorato.
Perché decidere chi resta e chi se ne va
È sedersi sull’orlo di un versante
Ad osservare l’alba o il tramonto
A scoprire se da soli
Si è in grado di svoltare.
Poche pagine, pochi versi, tutti accomunati dal senso di perdita, dal senso di sfinimento, di sconfitta e di conflitto che si portava appresso il periodo storico durante il quale sono stati composti (1932-1939).
Non vi ho trovato risposte, solamente tanta tristezza.
(…)
Quando viene, verrà senza avvisare,
proprio mentre mi sto grattando il naso?
Busserà la mattina alla mia porta,
o là sull’autobus mi pesterà un piede?
Arriverà come il cambiamento improvviso del tempo?
Sarà cortese o spiccio il suo saluto?
Darà una svolta a tutta la mia vita?
Ditemi la verità, vi prego, sull’amore.
Dopo le poche pagine di questo libro mi sono quasi sentita in dovere di rispondere alla sua poesia più rappresentativa, quella che dà il titolo all’opera:
Quando arriva ti distrugge,
ti spinge, ti sfigura, ti stravolge
e nel bel mezzo del volteggio
ti abbandona nel silenzio.
Che ognuno senta sulla pelle, nella carne,
il supplizio della scelta.
Che la solitudine regni nell’animo dell’innamorato.
Perché decidere chi resta e chi se ne va
È sedersi sull’orlo di un versante
Ad osservare l’alba o il tramonto
A scoprire se da soli
Si è in grado di svoltare.
Read
April 28, 2021Funeral blues
Stop all the clocks, cut off the telephone,
Prevent he dog from barking with a juicy bone,
Silence the pianos and with muffled drum
Bring out the coffin, let the mourners come.
Let aeroplanes circle moaning overhead
Scribbling on the sky the message He Is Dead,
Put crêpe bows round the white necks of the public doves,
Let the traffic policemen wear black cotton gloves.
He was my North, my South, my East and West,
My working week and my Sunday rest,
My noon, my midnight, my talk, my song;
I thought that love would last for ever: I was wrong.
The stars are not wanted now: put out every one;
Pack up the moon and dismantle the sun;
Pour away the ocean and sweep up the wood;
For nothing now can ever come to any good.
Stop all the clocks, cut off the telephone,
Prevent he dog from barking with a juicy bone,
Silence the pianos and with muffled drum
Bring out the coffin, let the mourners come.
Let aeroplanes circle moaning overhead
Scribbling on the sky the message He Is Dead,
Put crêpe bows round the white necks of the public doves,
Let the traffic policemen wear black cotton gloves.
He was my North, my South, my East and West,
My working week and my Sunday rest,
My noon, my midnight, my talk, my song;
I thought that love would last for ever: I was wrong.
The stars are not wanted now: put out every one;
Pack up the moon and dismantle the sun;
Pour away the ocean and sweep up the wood;
For nothing now can ever come to any good.
November 7, 2012
While most poems fly over my head, Auden's poetry has always made sense to me. It's beautiful without being too abstract and it always seems to strike a chord for me. Auden had a wonderful gift for conveying emotion in only a few lines. This sweet collection includes one of my favorite poems, "Funeral Blues." Here's one section from the poem...
"He was my North, my South, my East and West,
My working week and my Sunday rest,
My noon, my midnight, my talk, my song;
I thought that love would last forever: I was wrong."
It just makes my heart ache. I also loved the poem "Lullaby," here's a taste...
"Not a whisper, not a thought, Not a kiss nor look be lost."
"He was my North, my South, my East and West,
My working week and my Sunday rest,
My noon, my midnight, my talk, my song;
I thought that love would last forever: I was wrong."
It just makes my heart ache. I also loved the poem "Lullaby," here's a taste...
"Not a whisper, not a thought, Not a kiss nor look be lost."
December 18, 2024
Sto per scrivere un papiro:
Brodskij scrive nell'introduzione di questo libro che Auden ha la capacità, anche nei suoi momenti più bui, di illuminare e scaldare il cuore (nonostante l'indifferenza e la tristezza di cui scrive). Sono d'accordo con questa affermazione e penso anche sia la ragione per cui mi sono così affezionata a questo poeta dopo averne letto quasi tutta l'opera in un momento buio della mia vita.
Oltre a questo c'è il fatto che nonostante siano passati quasi 100 anni da quando queste poesie sono state scritte rimangono comunque tra le più attuali. È strano come Auden sembri quasi dimenticato in un tempo che alla fine non è così distante dal suo. Nello specifico questa raccolta parla di amore ma anche di incertezza verso un futuro che porta con sé desolazione e guerra. Una decina di anni dopo, quando quel futuro è diventato realtà, Auden scrive l'Età dell'Ansia.
Detto ciò consiglio Auden a chiunque voglia leggere poesia. Forse non risuonerà per tutti ma non sarà mai tempo sprecato.
Brodskij scrive nell'introduzione di questo libro che Auden ha la capacità, anche nei suoi momenti più bui, di illuminare e scaldare il cuore (nonostante l'indifferenza e la tristezza di cui scrive). Sono d'accordo con questa affermazione e penso anche sia la ragione per cui mi sono così affezionata a questo poeta dopo averne letto quasi tutta l'opera in un momento buio della mia vita.
Oltre a questo c'è il fatto che nonostante siano passati quasi 100 anni da quando queste poesie sono state scritte rimangono comunque tra le più attuali. È strano come Auden sembri quasi dimenticato in un tempo che alla fine non è così distante dal suo. Nello specifico questa raccolta parla di amore ma anche di incertezza verso un futuro che porta con sé desolazione e guerra. Una decina di anni dopo, quando quel futuro è diventato realtà, Auden scrive l'Età dell'Ansia.
Detto ciò consiglio Auden a chiunque voglia leggere poesia. Forse non risuonerà per tutti ma non sarà mai tempo sprecato.
October 11, 2020
The first book of Auden's poems I have ever read, and I was impressed. They are upbeat, full of life and rhythmically enjoyable. Even the more tragic poems here are fun to read! I avoided Auden for years. I assumed he was going to be a "curtains and flowers" poet, his work devoid of irony and whimsy, but I was wrong. The title poem reminds me more of Noel Coward at his lightest than it does of [insert name of profound and deadly serious poet] and I was delighted by this fact! I will seek out more of his work....
One thing I must mention. Some rascal tore the last page out of this very slim book. I had to look up 'Funeral Blues' on the internet. Rascals like that are bounders and rotters!
One thing I must mention. Some rascal tore the last page out of this very slim book. I had to look up 'Funeral Blues' on the internet. Rascals like that are bounders and rotters!
August 9, 2023
Ah, é sempre bom ler Auden. Nos seus poemas mais pessimistas há sempre uma luz solar que parece tudo redimir. Será Auden o mais americano dos poetas ingleses ou será Eliot o mais inglês dos americanos? Todavia, prefiro a precisão de Eliot, o seu pathos. De Auden fica-me sempre um sabor agradável a uma vida que deve poder ser bem vivida. Grande Auden. Tão curto este livro e tão maravilhoso. Funeral blues dificilmente nos sairá da cabeça.
November 12, 2025
funeral blues was my favourite one!!
June 21, 2015
W.H. Auden witty wordplay and everyman voice spills from each page of this beautiful little edition of a collection of his poetry. I read this book over and again, enjoying the words and reading into each poem as I read it. There is a clarity to his writing that isn't always prominent in 30's poetry, and I enjoyed his small bursts of humour as well as a his darkened and torturous energy that often existed when the jokes were done. I will seek out more of Auden's work, for sure, because this was a very enjoyable, albeit short, anthology.
March 2, 2021
WH Auden is one of my favourite poets – though I am much keener on his political poetry than on any love poetry. That having been said, “Funeral Blues” (1936) (the last poem in this short collection) has to be the most affecting and wonderful poem about love and loss that has ever been written. I find it difficult to read it without tears in my eyes. My husband is
and when I thought last year that I would lose him to cancer – that poem summed up how I felt. Thankfully, he is still around. After that poem, the other love poems in the book seemed superfluous.
However, “Tell me the Truth about Love” was a light hearted read, and underlined how utterly impossible it is to understand love – you can but feel it.
“O What is that Sound” (1932) I remember from school, primarily because my imbecilic English teacher claimed it was about the American War of Independence. I loudly disagreed – and still do. This is not (for me) a poem about love, but about betrayal, of fear, of the horrors of war and what it drives people to do. The rhythm of the poem mimics the marching of the soldiers, increasing in tempo as they come closer and closer. At the last stanza you just want to scream:
“Eyes Look into the Well” (1940) is another poem about war and loss, that also appealed to me:
This is a quick read, and an excellent introduction to the poetry of WH Auden – for those who enjoy love poetry, and also for those of a more morbid, political, anti-war bent like me.
Definitely recommended.
“my North, my South, my East and West,
my working week and my Sunday rest”
and when I thought last year that I would lose him to cancer – that poem summed up how I felt. Thankfully, he is still around. After that poem, the other love poems in the book seemed superfluous.
However, “Tell me the Truth about Love” was a light hearted read, and underlined how utterly impossible it is to understand love – you can but feel it.
“O What is that Sound” (1932) I remember from school, primarily because my imbecilic English teacher claimed it was about the American War of Independence. I loudly disagreed – and still do. This is not (for me) a poem about love, but about betrayal, of fear, of the horrors of war and what it drives people to do. The rhythm of the poem mimics the marching of the soldiers, increasing in tempo as they come closer and closer. At the last stanza you just want to scream:
“Their boots are heavy on the floor
And their eyes are burning”
“Eyes Look into the Well” (1940) is another poem about war and loss, that also appealed to me:
“Face down in the flooded brook
With nothing more to say,
Lies One the soldiers took,
And spoiled and threw away.”
This is a quick read, and an excellent introduction to the poetry of WH Auden – for those who enjoy love poetry, and also for those of a more morbid, political, anti-war bent like me.
Definitely recommended.
August 6, 2022
A really lovely collection - love Auden - my favourite of the bunch I think being...
As I Walked Out One Evening
"As I walked out one evening,
Walking down Bristol Street,
The crowds upon the pavement
Were fields of harvest wheat.
And down by the brimming river
I heard a lover sing
Under an arch of the railway:
'Love has no ending.
'I'll love you, dear, I'll love you
Till China and Africa meet,
And the river jumps over the mountain
And the salmon sing in the street,
'I'll love you till the ocean
Is folded and hung up to dry
And the seven stars go squawking
Like geese about the sky.
'The years shall run like rabbits,
For in my arms I hold
The Flower of the Ages,
And the first love of the world.'
But all the clocks in the city
Began to whirr and chime:
'O let not Time deceive you,
You cannot conquer Time.
'In the burrows of the Nightmare
Where Justice naked is,
Time watches from the shadow
And coughs when you would kiss.
'In headaches and in worry
Vaguely life leaks away,
And Time will have his fancy
To-morrow or to-day.
'Into many a green valley
Drifts the appalling snow;
Time breaks the threaded dances
And the diver's brilliant bow.
'O plunge your hands in water,
Plunge them in up to the wrist;
Stare, stare in the basin
And wonder what you've missed.
'The glacier knocks in the cupboard,
The desert sighs in the bed,
And the crack in the tea-cup opens
A lane to the land of the dead.
'Where the beggars raffle the banknotes
And the Giant is enchanting to Jack,
And the Lily-white Boy is a Roarer,
And Jill goes down on her back.
'O look, look in the mirror,
O look in your distress:
Life remains a blessing
Although you cannot bless.
'O stand, stand at the window
As the tears scald and start;
You shall love your crooked neighbour
With your crooked heart.'
It was late, late in the evening,
The lovers they were gone;
The clocks had ceased their chiming,
And the deep river ran on."
As I Walked Out One Evening
"As I walked out one evening,
Walking down Bristol Street,
The crowds upon the pavement
Were fields of harvest wheat.
And down by the brimming river
I heard a lover sing
Under an arch of the railway:
'Love has no ending.
'I'll love you, dear, I'll love you
Till China and Africa meet,
And the river jumps over the mountain
And the salmon sing in the street,
'I'll love you till the ocean
Is folded and hung up to dry
And the seven stars go squawking
Like geese about the sky.
'The years shall run like rabbits,
For in my arms I hold
The Flower of the Ages,
And the first love of the world.'
But all the clocks in the city
Began to whirr and chime:
'O let not Time deceive you,
You cannot conquer Time.
'In the burrows of the Nightmare
Where Justice naked is,
Time watches from the shadow
And coughs when you would kiss.
'In headaches and in worry
Vaguely life leaks away,
And Time will have his fancy
To-morrow or to-day.
'Into many a green valley
Drifts the appalling snow;
Time breaks the threaded dances
And the diver's brilliant bow.
'O plunge your hands in water,
Plunge them in up to the wrist;
Stare, stare in the basin
And wonder what you've missed.
'The glacier knocks in the cupboard,
The desert sighs in the bed,
And the crack in the tea-cup opens
A lane to the land of the dead.
'Where the beggars raffle the banknotes
And the Giant is enchanting to Jack,
And the Lily-white Boy is a Roarer,
And Jill goes down on her back.
'O look, look in the mirror,
O look in your distress:
Life remains a blessing
Although you cannot bless.
'O stand, stand at the window
As the tears scald and start;
You shall love your crooked neighbour
With your crooked heart.'
It was late, late in the evening,
The lovers they were gone;
The clocks had ceased their chiming,
And the deep river ran on."
April 9, 2025
Wonderful
September 7, 2025
thank you fleur!!!!!!!
September 22, 2025
A parte la poesia che dà il titolo alla raccolta, davvero nulla di che. Mi aspettavo qualcosa di più coinvolgente, considerando pure che si parli di amore, di sentimenti, dell’urto costante tra sensazioni opposte e non sempre conciliabili. Un librino che non risolve la questione, d’altronde la pretesa era forse eccessiva. Come si può mai dire quale sia la verità sulll’amore?
November 30, 2015
A beautiful collection of poems about love and what it really means to love and be loved. I loved most of them, I cannot think of one I didn't enjoy! Totally recommend it to every poetry lover out there
this is my favourite out of all of the poems, it's called "Oh tell me the truth about love"
Some say love's a little boy,
And some say it's a bird,
Some say it makes the world go round,
Some say that's absurd,
And when I asked the man next door,
Who looked as if he knew,
His wife got very cross indeed,
And said it wouldn't do.
Does it look like a pair of pyjamas,
Or the ham in a temperance hotel?
Does its odour remind one of llamas,
Or has it a comforting smell?
Is it prickly to touch as a hedge is,
Or soft as eiderdown fluff?
Is it sharp or quite smooth at the edges?
O tell me the truth about love.
Our history books refer to it
In cryptic little notes,
It's quite a common topic on
The Transatlantic boats;
I've found the subject mentioned in
Accounts of suicides,
And even seen it scribbled on
The backs of railway guides.
Does it howl like a hungry Alsatian,
Or boom like a military band?
Could one give a first-rate imitation
On a saw or a Steinway Grand?
Is its singing at parties a riot?
Does it only like Classical stuff?
Will it stop when one wants to be quiet?
O tell me the truth about love.
I looked inside the summer-house;
It wasn't even there;
I tried the Thames at Maidenhead,
And Brighton's bracing air.
I don't know what the blackbird sang,
Or what the tulip said;
But it wasn't in the chicken-run,
Or underneath the bed.
Can it pull extraordinary faces?
Is it usually sick on a swing?
Does it spend all its time at the races,
or fiddling with pieces of string?
Has it views of its own about money?
Does it think Patriotism enough?
Are its stories vulgar but funny?
O tell me the truth about love.
When it comes, will it come without warning
Just as I'm picking my nose?
Will it knock on my door in the morning,
Or tread in the bus on my toes?
Will it come like a change in the weather?
Will its greeting be courteous or rough?
Will it alter my life altogether?
O tell me the truth about love.
WH Auden
this is my favourite out of all of the poems, it's called "Oh tell me the truth about love"
Some say love's a little boy,
And some say it's a bird,
Some say it makes the world go round,
Some say that's absurd,
And when I asked the man next door,
Who looked as if he knew,
His wife got very cross indeed,
And said it wouldn't do.
Does it look like a pair of pyjamas,
Or the ham in a temperance hotel?
Does its odour remind one of llamas,
Or has it a comforting smell?
Is it prickly to touch as a hedge is,
Or soft as eiderdown fluff?
Is it sharp or quite smooth at the edges?
O tell me the truth about love.
Our history books refer to it
In cryptic little notes,
It's quite a common topic on
The Transatlantic boats;
I've found the subject mentioned in
Accounts of suicides,
And even seen it scribbled on
The backs of railway guides.
Does it howl like a hungry Alsatian,
Or boom like a military band?
Could one give a first-rate imitation
On a saw or a Steinway Grand?
Is its singing at parties a riot?
Does it only like Classical stuff?
Will it stop when one wants to be quiet?
O tell me the truth about love.
I looked inside the summer-house;
It wasn't even there;
I tried the Thames at Maidenhead,
And Brighton's bracing air.
I don't know what the blackbird sang,
Or what the tulip said;
But it wasn't in the chicken-run,
Or underneath the bed.
Can it pull extraordinary faces?
Is it usually sick on a swing?
Does it spend all its time at the races,
or fiddling with pieces of string?
Has it views of its own about money?
Does it think Patriotism enough?
Are its stories vulgar but funny?
O tell me the truth about love.
When it comes, will it come without warning
Just as I'm picking my nose?
Will it knock on my door in the morning,
Or tread in the bus on my toes?
Will it come like a change in the weather?
Will its greeting be courteous or rough?
Will it alter my life altogether?
O tell me the truth about love.
WH Auden
October 13, 2011
I think this is true for many people: their first introduction to the poetry of W. H. Auden was not through a classroom or casual reading, but through a film. In 1994, writer Richard Curtis quoted Auden’s poem Funeral Blues in his screenplay, Four Weddings and a Funeral. The popularity of that film exposed Auden’s work to millions, and saw Faber publishing a small book, Tell Me The Truth About Love, that included Funeral Blues, to cash in.
TMTTAL then contains the best romantic songs – and these really are songs – Auden wrote, culled from his Collected Poems. So you have eponymous poem with its sequence of questions that is really quite funny, the expectation-defying As I Walked Out One Evening, the frightening O What Is That Sound with its soldiers marching ever nearer, and of course Funeral Blues, and its brutal line: “I thought that love would last forever: I was wrong.”
This collection is very short indeed, containing just fifteen poems, and it doesn’t provide a great overview of Auden’s range: but as an introduction to one of Britain’s most lauded poets, it is very good. Its range is wide, 1932 – 1948, so it is more than a mere snapshot into one particular moment in his life – that this collection went onto to sell over a quarter of a million copies speaks to how well-loved this collection has become. That it was still inprint in 2006 (when my edition was printed) twelve years after the film that launched it closed in cinemas, is testimony to how great these fifteen poems are, and how beautiful Auden’s poetry can be.
TMTTAL then contains the best romantic songs – and these really are songs – Auden wrote, culled from his Collected Poems. So you have eponymous poem with its sequence of questions that is really quite funny, the expectation-defying As I Walked Out One Evening, the frightening O What Is That Sound with its soldiers marching ever nearer, and of course Funeral Blues, and its brutal line: “I thought that love would last forever: I was wrong.”
This collection is very short indeed, containing just fifteen poems, and it doesn’t provide a great overview of Auden’s range: but as an introduction to one of Britain’s most lauded poets, it is very good. Its range is wide, 1932 – 1948, so it is more than a mere snapshot into one particular moment in his life – that this collection went onto to sell over a quarter of a million copies speaks to how well-loved this collection has become. That it was still inprint in 2006 (when my edition was printed) twelve years after the film that launched it closed in cinemas, is testimony to how great these fifteen poems are, and how beautiful Auden’s poetry can be.
February 1, 2016
This is a selection of thirteen short poems, mainly concerned with the transience of love and youth. The most famous of which are, I guess, As I Walked Out One Evening, Lullaby, and Funeral Blues.
Lullaby is probably a decent choice to sum things up thematically. The speaker lies with his sleeping lover and ruminates movingly on the passing of time: "in my arms till break of day / Let the living creature lie, / Mortal, guilty, but to me / The entirely beautiful."
The forms are recognisable (one is a calypso, others have the feeling of popular song), the themes are universal, and the language has an engagingly informal quality, so it's no surprise that so many of these pieces have broken out from the world of poetry into the wider culture. Good stuff.
Lullaby is probably a decent choice to sum things up thematically. The speaker lies with his sleeping lover and ruminates movingly on the passing of time: "in my arms till break of day / Let the living creature lie, / Mortal, guilty, but to me / The entirely beautiful."
The forms are recognisable (one is a calypso, others have the feeling of popular song), the themes are universal, and the language has an engagingly informal quality, so it's no surprise that so many of these pieces have broken out from the world of poetry into the wider culture. Good stuff.
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