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Another Time
Another Time was the first volume that Auden published after his departure to America with Christopher Isherwood in January 1939. It was dedicated to Chester Kallman. The poems, some of which date from the early thirties, are about people, places and the intellectual climate of the times, and they show greater variety of tone and technique than in any previous book of Auden's. Some of his most famous and often quoted (or misquoted) lines appear in their original form, including the text of two poems in particular - 'Spain 1937' and 'September 1,1939' - that he later altered or repudiated. This beautifully designed edition forms part of a series of ten titles celebrating Faber's publishing over the decades.
128 pages, Hardcover
First published January 1, 1940
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2822 people want to read
About the author
W.H. Auden
616 books1,053 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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April 5, 2018
Another Time Un altro tempo è la prima raccolta che Auden pubblica nel 1940, un anno dopo il suo trasferimento negli Stati Uniti là dove finalmente riesce a sentirsi libero dalla cupezza di un Europa in piena crisi e che si apprestava ad una nuova guerra.
Scriverà in una lettera ad un amico: Adoro New York perché è la sola città in cui ritengo di poter lavorare e vivere in pace, per la prima volta mi ritrovo a condurre una vita che lontanamente assomiglia al modo in cui penso di dover vivere, non ho mai scritto o letto tanto.
Un altro tempo è una raccolta varia che comprende sonetti, ballate, blues, poesie d’occasione come la commemorazione dedicata a Sigmund Freud o quelle per la morte del poeta Yeats e per lo scrittore Hermann Melville, versi densi di stratificazioni di senso coglibili appieno solo dietro una conoscenza approfondita dei due autori.
Condivido innanzitutto la sua poesia più nota Blues in memoria,
lo faccio solo perché è la più nota ed effettivamente è molto molto bella, direi bellissima e di agile approccio, diventata famosissima grazie al film Quattro matrimoni e un funerale dove venne recitata come elegia durante un rito funebre.
Blues in memoria
Fermate tutti gli orologi, staccate la cornetta,
date al cane un osso succulento prima che si metta
ad abbaiare, zittite i pianoforti e al cupo segnale
del tamburo portate fuori il feretro, parta il funerale.
Alti gli aeroplani s’avvitino con voce di sconforto
scarabocchiando in cielo la notizia: E’ Morto.
Mettete un nastro nero al collo bianco d’ogni piccione,
fate indossare ai vigili guanti neri di cotone.
Era il mio nord, il mio sud, il mio ovest, il mio est,
la mia settimana di lavoro e il mio giorno di festa,
il mio meriggio, la mia notte, la mia parola, il mio canto.
Sbagliai a pensare eterno quest’amore – ora so quanto.
Le stelle non servono più: spegnetele una a una;
smontate il sole e imballate la luna;
strappate le selve e scolate tutto il mare.
Nessun piacere potrà mai tornare
Blues in memoria, pur essendo bellissima credo sia poco emblematica per cogliere la poetica di Auden che per lo meno nella raccolta che ho letto, non è propriamente un cantore dell’amore oppure non è solo quello. E’ più poeta antiromantico e antisentimentale, attento agli eventi storici, sociali e cruciali del suo tempo, che polemicamente e con spirito critico traduce in versi spietatamente cinici ma profondamente aderenti alla realtà.
Auden fa veramente poco per attrarre il lettore, è come se facesse di tutto per renderglisi antipatico e tenerlo lontano, leggendolo ho avuto questa sensazione, una poesia che è arrabbiata e polemica.
OH DITE CHE COSA è DAVVERO L’AMORE
Per alcuni Amore è un fanciullo,
e per altri un uccello,
per alcuni governa il mondo,
il che per altri è assurdo:
ma quando chiesi al mio vicino che
sembrava lo sapesse,
la moglie si è seccò e ribattè
che non era suo interesse.
Assomiglia a un pigiama
o a un prosciutto vecchio e scipito?
Il suo odore fa pensare a un lama,
o avrà un buon profumo di pulito?
Al tatto è acuto spino
o d’oca soffice piumino?
è aguzzo o liscio fuori?
oh, dite che cos’è davvero Amore.
I libri di storia ne parlano
in note misteriose,
ed è un argomento consueto
nei viaggi di crociera;
l’ho visto menzionato nei
racconti di suicidio,
e scarabocchiato perfino
sull’orario dei treni.
Fa l’urlo d’un famelico alsaziano
o come una fanfara un gran baccano?
Lo imiterà nel modo meno incerto
una sega o uno Steinway da concerto?
Quando canta alle feste la furore?
Soltanto roba classica gli piace?
E quando vuoi il silenzio, anche lui tace?
Oh, dite che cos’è davvero Amore.
Sono andato a vedere nel bersò,
non ci aveva mai messo piede,
ho esplorato il Tamigi a Maidenhead
e l’aria salubre di Bringhton.
Non so che cosa mi cantasse il merlo
O che cosa dicesse il tulipano,
ma non era nascosto nel pollaio
né era finito sotto il letto.
Fa straordinarie smorfie forse?
Sull’altalena gli gira la testa?
Passa tutto il suo tempo alle corse
o pizzicando qualche corda pesta?
Sul denaro s’è fatto proprie idee?
Rende a quella di Patria il giusto onore?
Storie allegre racconta, pur pleblee?
Oh, dite che cos’è davvero Amore.
Quando viene, imprevisto s’avvicina
mentre mi metto le dita nel naso?
Busserà alla mia porta la mattina?
O sul tram mi schiaccia un piede a caso?
Giunge improvviso come un temporale,
saluta da villano o da signore?
Per la mia vita, è un cambio radicale?
Oh, dite che cos’è davvero Amore
Credo che la poesia Il cittadino ignoto rifletta al meglio la personalità di Whistan HughyAuden, è un componimento sull’uomo anonimo, sulla’ anti eroe moderno quell’uomo comune che diventa l’emblema del XX secolo apparentemente libero e felice in realtà inquadrato in meccanismi autoritari più grandi di lui.
IL CITTADINO IGNOTO
A Js/07/M/378
Lo Stato Dedica Questo Monumento Marmoreo
L'Ufficio Statistico attesta
che mai fu fatta contro di lui querela,
e rapporto sulla sua condotta non si dà
che non lo giudichi un santo nel senso moderno di un termine antiquato,
perchè in ogni atto egli servì la Comunità.
A parte il periodo della Guerra, finchè andò in pensione
lavorò in una fabbrica e mai fu licenziato,
ma piaceva ai padroni, Fudge Motors Inc.
Eppure non era un crumiro nè aveva idee bizzarre,
perchè il Sindacato attesta che pagava le sue quote
(e ci è attestato che il Sindacato non mente)
e i nostri Assistenti Sociali hanno rilevato
che era popolare tra i suoi compagni e non disdegnava un bicchiere.
La Stampa è convinta che comprasse ogni giorno un quotidiano
e che non reagisse alla pubblicità in modo strano.
Le polizze a suo nome mostrano che era assicurato a vita,
e il suo Libretto Sanitario prova che andò in ospedale una volta ma ne uscì guarito.
Le varie Ricerche di Mercato dichiarano
che sapeva usufruire dei Piani Rateali
e che aveva tutto quanto occorre all'Uomo Moderno,
un grammofono, una radio, un'auto e un frigo.
I vari Sondaggi d'Opinione rilevano soddisfatti
che aveva l'opinione giusta al momento giusto;
quando c'era la pace, voleva la pace; quando c'era la guerra, partiva.
Era sposato e accrebbe di cinque figli la popolazione,
numero perfetto secondo il nostro Eugenista per un padre della sua generazione,
e i nostri insegnanti riportano che non ostacolò mai i loro programmi.
Era libero? Felice? Che domande assurde:
se qualcosa non avesse funzionato, di certo ne saremmo informati.
Scriverà in una lettera ad un amico: Adoro New York perché è la sola città in cui ritengo di poter lavorare e vivere in pace, per la prima volta mi ritrovo a condurre una vita che lontanamente assomiglia al modo in cui penso di dover vivere, non ho mai scritto o letto tanto.
Un altro tempo è una raccolta varia che comprende sonetti, ballate, blues, poesie d’occasione come la commemorazione dedicata a Sigmund Freud o quelle per la morte del poeta Yeats e per lo scrittore Hermann Melville, versi densi di stratificazioni di senso coglibili appieno solo dietro una conoscenza approfondita dei due autori.
Condivido innanzitutto la sua poesia più nota Blues in memoria,
lo faccio solo perché è la più nota ed effettivamente è molto molto bella, direi bellissima e di agile approccio, diventata famosissima grazie al film Quattro matrimoni e un funerale dove venne recitata come elegia durante un rito funebre.
Blues in memoria
Fermate tutti gli orologi, staccate la cornetta,
date al cane un osso succulento prima che si metta
ad abbaiare, zittite i pianoforti e al cupo segnale
del tamburo portate fuori il feretro, parta il funerale.
Alti gli aeroplani s’avvitino con voce di sconforto
scarabocchiando in cielo la notizia: E’ Morto.
Mettete un nastro nero al collo bianco d’ogni piccione,
fate indossare ai vigili guanti neri di cotone.
Era il mio nord, il mio sud, il mio ovest, il mio est,
la mia settimana di lavoro e il mio giorno di festa,
il mio meriggio, la mia notte, la mia parola, il mio canto.
Sbagliai a pensare eterno quest’amore – ora so quanto.
Le stelle non servono più: spegnetele una a una;
smontate il sole e imballate la luna;
strappate le selve e scolate tutto il mare.
Nessun piacere potrà mai tornare
Blues in memoria, pur essendo bellissima credo sia poco emblematica per cogliere la poetica di Auden che per lo meno nella raccolta che ho letto, non è propriamente un cantore dell’amore oppure non è solo quello. E’ più poeta antiromantico e antisentimentale, attento agli eventi storici, sociali e cruciali del suo tempo, che polemicamente e con spirito critico traduce in versi spietatamente cinici ma profondamente aderenti alla realtà.
Auden fa veramente poco per attrarre il lettore, è come se facesse di tutto per renderglisi antipatico e tenerlo lontano, leggendolo ho avuto questa sensazione, una poesia che è arrabbiata e polemica.
OH DITE CHE COSA è DAVVERO L’AMORE
Per alcuni Amore è un fanciullo,
e per altri un uccello,
per alcuni governa il mondo,
il che per altri è assurdo:
ma quando chiesi al mio vicino che
sembrava lo sapesse,
la moglie si è seccò e ribattè
che non era suo interesse.
Assomiglia a un pigiama
o a un prosciutto vecchio e scipito?
Il suo odore fa pensare a un lama,
o avrà un buon profumo di pulito?
Al tatto è acuto spino
o d’oca soffice piumino?
è aguzzo o liscio fuori?
oh, dite che cos’è davvero Amore.
I libri di storia ne parlano
in note misteriose,
ed è un argomento consueto
nei viaggi di crociera;
l’ho visto menzionato nei
racconti di suicidio,
e scarabocchiato perfino
sull’orario dei treni.
Fa l’urlo d’un famelico alsaziano
o come una fanfara un gran baccano?
Lo imiterà nel modo meno incerto
una sega o uno Steinway da concerto?
Quando canta alle feste la furore?
Soltanto roba classica gli piace?
E quando vuoi il silenzio, anche lui tace?
Oh, dite che cos’è davvero Amore.
Sono andato a vedere nel bersò,
non ci aveva mai messo piede,
ho esplorato il Tamigi a Maidenhead
e l’aria salubre di Bringhton.
Non so che cosa mi cantasse il merlo
O che cosa dicesse il tulipano,
ma non era nascosto nel pollaio
né era finito sotto il letto.
Fa straordinarie smorfie forse?
Sull’altalena gli gira la testa?
Passa tutto il suo tempo alle corse
o pizzicando qualche corda pesta?
Sul denaro s’è fatto proprie idee?
Rende a quella di Patria il giusto onore?
Storie allegre racconta, pur pleblee?
Oh, dite che cos’è davvero Amore.
Quando viene, imprevisto s’avvicina
mentre mi metto le dita nel naso?
Busserà alla mia porta la mattina?
O sul tram mi schiaccia un piede a caso?
Giunge improvviso come un temporale,
saluta da villano o da signore?
Per la mia vita, è un cambio radicale?
Oh, dite che cos’è davvero Amore
Credo che la poesia Il cittadino ignoto rifletta al meglio la personalità di Whistan HughyAuden, è un componimento sull’uomo anonimo, sulla’ anti eroe moderno quell’uomo comune che diventa l’emblema del XX secolo apparentemente libero e felice in realtà inquadrato in meccanismi autoritari più grandi di lui.
IL CITTADINO IGNOTO
A Js/07/M/378
Lo Stato Dedica Questo Monumento Marmoreo
L'Ufficio Statistico attesta
che mai fu fatta contro di lui querela,
e rapporto sulla sua condotta non si dà
che non lo giudichi un santo nel senso moderno di un termine antiquato,
perchè in ogni atto egli servì la Comunità.
A parte il periodo della Guerra, finchè andò in pensione
lavorò in una fabbrica e mai fu licenziato,
ma piaceva ai padroni, Fudge Motors Inc.
Eppure non era un crumiro nè aveva idee bizzarre,
perchè il Sindacato attesta che pagava le sue quote
(e ci è attestato che il Sindacato non mente)
e i nostri Assistenti Sociali hanno rilevato
che era popolare tra i suoi compagni e non disdegnava un bicchiere.
La Stampa è convinta che comprasse ogni giorno un quotidiano
e che non reagisse alla pubblicità in modo strano.
Le polizze a suo nome mostrano che era assicurato a vita,
e il suo Libretto Sanitario prova che andò in ospedale una volta ma ne uscì guarito.
Le varie Ricerche di Mercato dichiarano
che sapeva usufruire dei Piani Rateali
e che aveva tutto quanto occorre all'Uomo Moderno,
un grammofono, una radio, un'auto e un frigo.
I vari Sondaggi d'Opinione rilevano soddisfatti
che aveva l'opinione giusta al momento giusto;
quando c'era la pace, voleva la pace; quando c'era la guerra, partiva.
Era sposato e accrebbe di cinque figli la popolazione,
numero perfetto secondo il nostro Eugenista per un padre della sua generazione,
e i nostri insegnanti riportano che non ostacolò mai i loro programmi.
Era libero? Felice? Che domande assurde:
se qualcosa non avesse funzionato, di certo ne saremmo informati.
March 1, 2020
"Segreda a ampulheta à pata do leão,
Dizem os sinos aos jardins sempre a tocar,
Quantos erros pode o tempo tolerar,
Quanto erram eles em terem sempre razão.
Por mais alto, porém, que o Tempo badale,
Por mais que corra sua impetuosa torrente,
Nunca ao leão provocou um só abalo,
Nem tão-pouco assustou a rosa impertinente.
Porque eles, parece, só veneram a vitória;
Enquanto nós escolhemos os nomes pelos som
E os problemas julgamos-los pela complexidade.
E sempre achou o Tempo em nós boa vontade.
Quando foi que não escolhemos andar à nora
Em vez de ir direitos à nossa posição?"
Dizem os sinos aos jardins sempre a tocar,
Quantos erros pode o tempo tolerar,
Quanto erram eles em terem sempre razão.
Por mais alto, porém, que o Tempo badale,
Por mais que corra sua impetuosa torrente,
Nunca ao leão provocou um só abalo,
Nem tão-pouco assustou a rosa impertinente.
Porque eles, parece, só veneram a vitória;
Enquanto nós escolhemos os nomes pelos som
E os problemas julgamos-los pela complexidade.
E sempre achou o Tempo em nós boa vontade.
Quando foi que não escolhemos andar à nora
Em vez de ir direitos à nossa posição?"
August 21, 2019
Warm are the still and lucky miles,
White shores of longing stretch away,
A light of recognition fills
The whole great day, and bright
The tiny world of lovers’ arms.
Calde sono le quiete e fauste miglia,
bianche sponde di desiderio vanno,
il riconoscimento riempie intero
di luce il gran giorno, e il minuscolo
mondo degli amorosi abbracci brilla.
White shores of longing stretch away,
A light of recognition fills
The whole great day, and bright
The tiny world of lovers’ arms.
Calde sono le quiete e fauste miglia,
bianche sponde di desiderio vanno,
il riconoscimento riempie intero
di luce il gran giorno, e il minuscolo
mondo degli amorosi abbracci brilla.
May 5, 2013
My favourite poet. "Looking up at the stars, I know full well, that for all they care, I can go to hell."
May 13, 2011
In my first year at university, I discovered three poets on the shelves of the abundant Otago University bookshop. I used to pore over those shelves, agonise over them, allocate my pennies warily.
From that time, I have Seamus Heaney's Collected Poems - the thick book with the forest green cover. I fell for his earthiness, his precision, and the fierceness of his 'Mycenae Lookout'. I have three e.e. cummings; I fell for his playfulness, his eroticism, his tenderness. He matched perfectly that thinskinned whirl of desire that constitutes your first year away from home. And I have this buff coloured edition of Auden, now sadly foxed after being lugged from flat to flat over more years than I like to remember.
With Auden, it was the tone that I loved - wise, sardonic, occasionally mournful, sometimes nobly resigned, well-manneredly anguished. The part of me that thrills to Auden is the same part that thrilled to the way T.H. White portrayed Arthur, Guinevere and Lancelot. If cumming was for that helium-filled feeling of falling in love, Auden was for the times that you had your heart set on someone who you just couldn't have.
Lines from the poems of this book have sunk so far into my mind that they've become part of the way I think, the way words form in my head. There's the ringing repeated lines: 'O all the instruments agree / The day of his death was a dark cold day', 'Yet there's no place for us, my dear, yet there's no place for us', 'But he frowned like thunder and he went away', 'Will it alter my life altogether / O, tell me the truth about love'.
Auden will always own love for me:
No matter how many times I boredom-watch Four Weddings and a Funeral, 'Funeral Blues' will always move me:
'Musee des Beaux Arts' will always be one of my favourite pieces of art writing:
'Roman Wall Blues' will always make me feel like I'm holding one end of a piece of string, and centuries ago, a Roman solider is holding the other:
And like what - a million English-speakers around around the world? - this will always be one of the pieces of writing I hold closest to me:
From that time, I have Seamus Heaney's Collected Poems - the thick book with the forest green cover. I fell for his earthiness, his precision, and the fierceness of his 'Mycenae Lookout'. I have three e.e. cummings; I fell for his playfulness, his eroticism, his tenderness. He matched perfectly that thinskinned whirl of desire that constitutes your first year away from home. And I have this buff coloured edition of Auden, now sadly foxed after being lugged from flat to flat over more years than I like to remember.
With Auden, it was the tone that I loved - wise, sardonic, occasionally mournful, sometimes nobly resigned, well-manneredly anguished. The part of me that thrills to Auden is the same part that thrilled to the way T.H. White portrayed Arthur, Guinevere and Lancelot. If cumming was for that helium-filled feeling of falling in love, Auden was for the times that you had your heart set on someone who you just couldn't have.
Lines from the poems of this book have sunk so far into my mind that they've become part of the way I think, the way words form in my head. There's the ringing repeated lines: 'O all the instruments agree / The day of his death was a dark cold day', 'Yet there's no place for us, my dear, yet there's no place for us', 'But he frowned like thunder and he went away', 'Will it alter my life altogether / O, tell me the truth about love'.
Auden will always own love for me:
Lay your sleeping head, my love,
Human on my faithless arm;
Time and fevers burn away
Individual beauty from
Thoughtful children, and the grave
Proves the child ephemeral:
But in my arms till break of day
Let the living creature lie,
Mortal, guilty, but to me
The entirely beautiful.
I believed for years that
Love was the conjunction
Of two oppositions;
That was all untrue;
Every young man fears that
He is not worth loving:
Bless you, darling, I have
Found myself in you.
No matter how many times I boredom-watch Four Weddings and a Funeral, 'Funeral Blues' will always move me:
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.
'Musee des Beaux Arts' will always be one of my favourite pieces of art writing:
About suffering they were never wrong,
The Old Masters; how well, they understood
Its human position; how it takes place
While someone else is eating or opening a window or just walking dully along;
How, when the aged are reverently, passionately waiting
For the miraculous birth, there always must be
Children who did not specially want it to happen, skating
On a pond at the edge of the wood:
They never forgot
That even the dreadful martyrdom must run its course
Anyhow in a corner, some untidy spot
Where the dogs go on with their doggy life and the torturer’s horse
Scratches its innocent behind on a tree.
In Breughel’s Icarus, for instance: how everything turns away
Quite leisurely from the disaster; the ploughman may
Have heard the splash, the forsaken cry,
But for him it was not an important failure; the sun shone
As it had to on the white legs disappearing into the green
Water; and the expensive delicate ship that must have seen
Something amazing, a boy falling out of the sky,
had somewhere to get to and sailed calmly on.
'Roman Wall Blues' will always make me feel like I'm holding one end of a piece of string, and centuries ago, a Roman solider is holding the other:
Over the heather the wet wind blows,
I've lice in my tunic and a cold in my nose.
The rain comes pattering out of the sky,
I'm a Wall soldier, I don't know why.
The mist creeps over the hard grey stone,
My girl's in Tungria; I sleep alone.
Aulus goes hanging around her place,
I don't like his manners, I don't like his face.
Piso's a Christian, he worships a fish;
There'd be no kissing if he had his wish.
She gave me a ring but I diced it away;
I want my girl and I want my pay.
When I'm a veteran with only one eye
I shall do nothing but look at the sky.
And like what - a million English-speakers around around the world? - this will always be one of the pieces of writing I hold closest to me:
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.
June 26, 2025
Auden was once my favorite poet based almost solely on his Selected Poems, and a couple of other things I read here and there (including the book-length Age of Anxiety). Somehow I come back to his poetry almost every year. I have not, though, systematically worked through his body of work. Over the past few weeks I've been diving back into his work, and he's reasserting himself as my favorite poet (a distinction that, over the years, has vacillated between Auden, Yeats, Anne Porter, and (more recently) Seamus Heaney).
I'd read many, if not most of these in that Selected, but it's wild how many classics are in one volume here: September 1, 1939 (which he later disavowed, but I really love even though I see why he may have backed off of it), Spain 1937 (which incredibly well done, but I definitely see why he wouldn't stand by the phrase "the necessary murder" and the utopian sense of history of the poem as the years went on), In Memory of WB Yeats (which along with In Praise of Limestone and If I Could Tell You, not in this volume, is probably my favorite of his poems), there's Funeral Blues (made famous in Four Weddings and a Funeral), Epitaph on a Tyrant, The Unknown Citizen, In Memory of Sigmund Freud, Lay Your Sleeping Head My Love, Musee de Beaux Arts, and (another favorite of mine) As I Walked Out One Evening. Those are the poems that I knew pretty well going into this collection, though I'd read many of the others.
I'm looking forward to getting to know the others as well as I do those moving forward. So many of them are good to great on an initial couple of readings. I've decided to rotate this into my yearly reread pile. So much great work in one collection. It's remarkable, and deserves multiple readings.
I'd read many, if not most of these in that Selected, but it's wild how many classics are in one volume here: September 1, 1939 (which he later disavowed, but I really love even though I see why he may have backed off of it), Spain 1937 (which incredibly well done, but I definitely see why he wouldn't stand by the phrase "the necessary murder" and the utopian sense of history of the poem as the years went on), In Memory of WB Yeats (which along with In Praise of Limestone and If I Could Tell You, not in this volume, is probably my favorite of his poems), there's Funeral Blues (made famous in Four Weddings and a Funeral), Epitaph on a Tyrant, The Unknown Citizen, In Memory of Sigmund Freud, Lay Your Sleeping Head My Love, Musee de Beaux Arts, and (another favorite of mine) As I Walked Out One Evening. Those are the poems that I knew pretty well going into this collection, though I'd read many of the others.
I'm looking forward to getting to know the others as well as I do those moving forward. So many of them are good to great on an initial couple of readings. I've decided to rotate this into my yearly reread pile. So much great work in one collection. It's remarkable, and deserves multiple readings.
March 3, 2014
Well. I just love this collection. Whenever I get close to someone new, I get this urge to read aloud to them my favorite poems from this book. I usually just end up doing it when I am home and alone because I am shy.
I found a first American edition of this (without cover) at Powell's recently, and though it was pricey, I bought it because of the wonderful annotations within the pages. A previous owner of this copy had some very strong opinions on Auden's 1940 collection. Some highlights from the commentator:
"feeble in logic"
"this seems better than it is"
"The metrics and the imagery are both so obviously valid, that it takes some time to recognize the flaccidity of the thinking and logic here"
I love this comment, in particular: "Auden is not a thinker. He is not an innovator, but simply the freshest and most vigorous singer of his generation."
The annotator though really praises Auden's "In Memory of W.B. Yeats" as "one of the finest poems of its kind -- informal elegy"
Anyway, my personal thoughts on Auden are that while he is a singer, I'm not a great "thinker" and the musicality and the dreaminess of his cadence captivate me. My personal favorites are XXI: Museé de Beaux-Arts, XIV: The Capital and XXVI: As I Walked Out One Evening.
I found a first American edition of this (without cover) at Powell's recently, and though it was pricey, I bought it because of the wonderful annotations within the pages. A previous owner of this copy had some very strong opinions on Auden's 1940 collection. Some highlights from the commentator:
"feeble in logic"
"this seems better than it is"
"The metrics and the imagery are both so obviously valid, that it takes some time to recognize the flaccidity of the thinking and logic here"
I love this comment, in particular: "Auden is not a thinker. He is not an innovator, but simply the freshest and most vigorous singer of his generation."
The annotator though really praises Auden's "In Memory of W.B. Yeats" as "one of the finest poems of its kind -- informal elegy"
Anyway, my personal thoughts on Auden are that while he is a singer, I'm not a great "thinker" and the musicality and the dreaminess of his cadence captivate me. My personal favorites are XXI: Museé de Beaux-Arts, XIV: The Capital and XXVI: As I Walked Out One Evening.
December 28, 2024
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.
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.
December 13, 2015
Spain 1937. Refugee Blues. Orpheus. Also, incidentally, Auden's most famous poem (another blues). This collection is - I could line up a lot of superlative adjectives here. I'm going to keep coming back to it.
January 18, 2009
Auden really had a knoack for getting under the skin. Read it.
August 17, 2011
Some really wonderful poems in this collection. Well worth checking out.
Read
January 6, 2024A mixed bag; definitely hitting his stride after early collections like Poems and The Orators, with some classic lines and gems amongst a lot of opaque/pretentious verse and overly pat rhyming couplets. I feel like I now know Auden well enough to move onto his mature works without feeling daunted.
December 6, 2016
September 1, 1939
By W.H. Auden
I sit in one of the dives
On Fifty-second Street
Uncertain and afraid
As the clever hopes expire
Of a low dishonest decade:
Waves of anger and fear
Circulate over the bright
And darkened lands of the earth,
Obsessing our private lives;
The unmentionable odour of death
Offends the September night.
Accurate scholarship can
Unearth the whole offence
From Luther until now
That has driven a culture mad,
Find what occurred at Linz,
What huge imago made
A psychopathic god:
I and the public know
What all schoolchildren learn,
Those to whom evil is done
Do evil in return.
Exiled Thucydides knew
All that a speech can say
About Democracy,
And what dictators do,
The elderly rubbish they talk
To an apathetic grave;
Analysed all in his book,
The enlightenment driven away,
The habit-forming pain,
Mismanagement and grief:
We must suffer them all again.
Into this neutral air
Where blind skyscrapers use
Their full height to proclaim
The strength of Collective Man,
Each language pours its vain
Competitive excuse:
But who can live for long
In an euphoric dream;
Out of the mirror they stare,
Imperialism's face
And the international wrong.
Faces along the bar
Cling to their average day:
The lights must never go out,
The music must always play,
All the conventions conspire
To make this fort assume
The furniture of home;
Lest we should see where we are,
Lost in a haunted wood,
Children afraid of the night
Who have never been happy or good.
The windiest militant trash
Important Persons shout
Is not so crude as our wish:
What mad Nijinsky wrote
About Diaghilev
Is true of the normal heart;
For the error bred in the bone
Of each woman and each man
Craves what it cannot have,
Not universal love
But to be loved alone.
From the conservative dark
Into the ethical life
The dense commuters come,
Repeating their morning vow;
'I will be true to the wife,
I'll concentrate more on my work,'
And helpless governors wake
To resume their compulsory game:
Who can release them now,
Who can reach the dead,
Who can speak for the dumb?
All I have is a voice
To undo the folded lie,
The romantic lie in the brain
Of the sensual man-in-the-street
And the lie of Authority
Whose buildings grope the sky:
There is no such thing as the State
And no one exists alone;
Hunger allows no choice
To the citizen or the police;
We must love one another or die.
Defenseless under the night
Our world in stupor lies;
Yet, dotted everywhere,
Ironic points of light
Flash out wherever the Just
Exchange their messages:
May I, composed like them
Of Eros and of dust,
Beleaguered by the same
Negation and despair,
Show an affirming flame.
By W.H. Auden
I sit in one of the dives
On Fifty-second Street
Uncertain and afraid
As the clever hopes expire
Of a low dishonest decade:
Waves of anger and fear
Circulate over the bright
And darkened lands of the earth,
Obsessing our private lives;
The unmentionable odour of death
Offends the September night.
Accurate scholarship can
Unearth the whole offence
From Luther until now
That has driven a culture mad,
Find what occurred at Linz,
What huge imago made
A psychopathic god:
I and the public know
What all schoolchildren learn,
Those to whom evil is done
Do evil in return.
Exiled Thucydides knew
All that a speech can say
About Democracy,
And what dictators do,
The elderly rubbish they talk
To an apathetic grave;
Analysed all in his book,
The enlightenment driven away,
The habit-forming pain,
Mismanagement and grief:
We must suffer them all again.
Into this neutral air
Where blind skyscrapers use
Their full height to proclaim
The strength of Collective Man,
Each language pours its vain
Competitive excuse:
But who can live for long
In an euphoric dream;
Out of the mirror they stare,
Imperialism's face
And the international wrong.
Faces along the bar
Cling to their average day:
The lights must never go out,
The music must always play,
All the conventions conspire
To make this fort assume
The furniture of home;
Lest we should see where we are,
Lost in a haunted wood,
Children afraid of the night
Who have never been happy or good.
The windiest militant trash
Important Persons shout
Is not so crude as our wish:
What mad Nijinsky wrote
About Diaghilev
Is true of the normal heart;
For the error bred in the bone
Of each woman and each man
Craves what it cannot have,
Not universal love
But to be loved alone.
From the conservative dark
Into the ethical life
The dense commuters come,
Repeating their morning vow;
'I will be true to the wife,
I'll concentrate more on my work,'
And helpless governors wake
To resume their compulsory game:
Who can release them now,
Who can reach the dead,
Who can speak for the dumb?
All I have is a voice
To undo the folded lie,
The romantic lie in the brain
Of the sensual man-in-the-street
And the lie of Authority
Whose buildings grope the sky:
There is no such thing as the State
And no one exists alone;
Hunger allows no choice
To the citizen or the police;
We must love one another or die.
Defenseless under the night
Our world in stupor lies;
Yet, dotted everywhere,
Ironic points of light
Flash out wherever the Just
Exchange their messages:
May I, composed like them
Of Eros and of dust,
Beleaguered by the same
Negation and despair,
Show an affirming flame.
October 18, 2013
I've decided to move this book to my read folder, but it has no finished date, its a 'forever dip into' book, books of poetry are like that, and, this being split between heavy and light, offers something for anyone who like words that rhyme.
May 18, 2012
Read many years ago and dip in occasionally.
May 6, 2015
the first third is brilliant
October 6, 2015
"Time watches from the shadows / And coughs when you would kiss". Mörkt och humoristiskt och medvetet på ett självklart sätt. Auden alltså..!
June 22, 2019
This collection of poetry by W. H. Auden from 1939 is a very interesting and well-written comment on the 1930's wars, totalitarian regimes, religious fundamentalism, bureaucratic states who wanted to diminish its citizens to numbers and statistics and other horrors of the time. Auden portrays - unlike the states and politicians that he critizise - the common man and gives him/her a voice in this world. He offers some very beautiful and incredibly sad stories about different characters who are victims of a cruel society or bad upbringing. In this whole portrait of fallen people and fallen places intertextuality contributes a lot, since especially history and theology plays an important role throughout the entire poetry collection. Auden is definitely interested in Christianity which he both ironises and insists on taking seriously.
All in all a very beautiful yet horrific poetry collection from a "another time".
All in all a very beautiful yet horrific poetry collection from a "another time".
May 27, 2020
Auden is considered one of the great poets of the 20th century, and this contains some of his best known poems. There are roughly 45 in all, I was really only enamored with 7 or 8, though I can say the highs were quite high and the lows not that low; in other words - the quality and tone of the poems is consistently good even when the collection doesn't shine. Auden is really about form, so for those who love form they'll likely enjoy this collection more than I did. I was taken with enough of these poems that I'll return to them in the future, and I'll continue to pursue Auden's work.
March 20, 2022
Great little collection of Auden poems. I read the 90th anniversary edition.
Auden was always writing about others - Freud, Pascal, Napoleon, Melville - he was an observer.
He also wrote about locations - Oxford, Brussels in Winter, Dover.
Some of the poems I like best in this volume are strangely untitled.
'You shall love your crooked neighbour with your crooked heart.'
There are some utterly delicious lines to be savoured throughout.
Auden deserves more credit than he's given. He rubbed shoulders with the greats, but was also great himself.
Auden was always writing about others - Freud, Pascal, Napoleon, Melville - he was an observer.
He also wrote about locations - Oxford, Brussels in Winter, Dover.
Some of the poems I like best in this volume are strangely untitled.
'You shall love your crooked neighbour with your crooked heart.'
There are some utterly delicious lines to be savoured throughout.
Auden deserves more credit than he's given. He rubbed shoulders with the greats, but was also great himself.
December 21, 2021
I've always loved Auden's writing and his ability to create such an intense feeling from so little words. You can really feel the despair, desperation, loneliness, and wonder of the time in which these poems were written during the Second World War and I love being transported to different states of mind and setting while reading poetry. Was sometimes lost in the over abundance of certain un-engaging poems but overall a lovely read.
Read
November 2, 2022Favourites:
Wrapped in a yielding air
The Creatures
Schoolchildren
Edward Lear
It's farewell to the drawing-room's civilised cry
Perhaps I always knew what they were saying
Hell is neither here nor there
The hour-glass whispers to the lion's paw
As I walked out one evening
Dover
Song
For us like any other fugitive
Funeral Blues
Epitaph on a Tyrant
Refugee Blues
Spain 1937
In Memory of W.B. Yeats
September 1, 1939
Wrapped in a yielding air
The Creatures
Schoolchildren
Edward Lear
It's farewell to the drawing-room's civilised cry
Perhaps I always knew what they were saying
Hell is neither here nor there
The hour-glass whispers to the lion's paw
As I walked out one evening
Dover
Song
For us like any other fugitive
Funeral Blues
Epitaph on a Tyrant
Refugee Blues
Spain 1937
In Memory of W.B. Yeats
September 1, 1939
March 9, 2018
" Faces along the bar
cling to their average day:
The lights must never go out,
the music must always play.
All the conventions conspire
to make this fortress assume
the furniture of home;
lest we should see where we are,
lost in a haunted wood,
children afraid of the night
who have never been happy or good."
(From "September 1, 1939")
cling to their average day:
The lights must never go out,
the music must always play.
All the conventions conspire
to make this fortress assume
the furniture of home;
lest we should see where we are,
lost in a haunted wood,
children afraid of the night
who have never been happy or good."
(From "September 1, 1939")
January 10, 2023
Mixed bag. it has some truly outstanding entries, but they're few and far between. The majority of the poems are rythmless and honestly feel like they were written bc homie was bored and isherwood was busy being a good writer
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
- XXVI page 43
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
- XXVI page 43
June 18, 2025
IV. MADRIGAL
O lurcher-loving collier, black as night,
Follow your love across the smokeless hill;
Your lamp is out and all the cages still;
Course for her heart and do not miss,
For Sunday soon is past and, Kate, fly not so fast,
For Monday comes when none may kiss:
Be marble to his soot, and to his black be white.
[84]
June 2, 2022
Auden’s verse is beautiful. There’s something so alluring and wonderful and moving about the words he chooses. “Funeral Blues” and “As I Walked Out One Evening” are still my favourites, but he has many other poems that are just as potent.
July 2, 2017
4-4.5/5
March 8, 2019
Pretendevo troppo... come al solito, rimasi deluso. Poche poesie salvo.
January 21, 2020
"Like love I say.
Like love we don't know where or why
Like love we can't compel or fly
Like love we often weep
Like love we seldom keep."
Like love we don't know where or why
Like love we can't compel or fly
Like love we often weep
Like love we seldom keep."
August 17, 2020
So beautiful it makes me ashamed and annoyed that it took me so many years to finally read through a full book of Auden’s.
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