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PoetryDeathMatch: Rudyard Kipling v Lewis Caroll [1]
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Date: 2022-07-30
Power of the Dogs
Why did I use this picture? Because its Hopper's best, you crude philistine.
This is our last deathmatch, partly due to disinterest but mostly due to me running out of poets. Their dead Jim, all dead.
This is poetry deathmatch. Poison pens for two, taxes for one. Two poets enter, one gets their tenses past. Btw PoetryDeathMatch seems to have, like a 100% mortality rate so far. Should the slings and arrows be nerf perhaps? Or, would that outrage fortune?
“Kipling has been variously labelled a colonialist, a jingoist, a racist, an anti-Semite, a misogynist, a right-wing imperialist warmonger.” And that was his good side so we shall just compare verse here.
Thats said to be the best selling postcard ever.
Lewis Carroll on the other hand, “ is also responsible for much of the groundwork on modern logic, mathematics, number theory and cryptography that would be later expanded upon by contemporaries and followers (such as Charles Babbage and Alan Turing), providing the foundations for modern computing and efficient mechanization”. So, he definitely wins as a person.
Kipling's shortest, best and most powerful work is:
If any question why we died/ Tell them, because our fathers lied.
After his son, who he'd urged to join the army, and even pulled strings to get him in, died in WWI. I can't imagine. Doesn't sound like a right-wing imperialist warmonger, does it? But he wrote stuff that was, too.
I go to to concert, party, ball—What profit is in these?I sit alone against the wallAnd strive to look at ease.The incense that is mine by rightThey burn before her shrine;And that's because I'm seventeenAnd She is forty-nine.I cannot check my girlish blush,My color comes and goes;I redden to my finger-tips,And sometimes to my nose.But She is white where white should be,And red where red should shine.The blush that flies at seventeenIs fixed at forty-nine.I wish I had Her constant cheek;I wish that I could singAll sorts of funny little songs,Not quite the proper thing.I'm very gauche and very shy,Her jokes aren't in my line;And, worst of all, I'm seventeenWhile She is forty-nine.The young men come, the young men goEach pink and white and neat,She's older than their mothers, butThey grovel at Her feet.They walk beside Her 'rickshaw wheels—None ever walk by mine;And that's because I'm seventeenAnd She is forty-nine.She rides with half a dozen men,(She calls them "boys" and "mashers")I trot along the Mall alone;My prettiest frocks and sashesDon't help to fill my programme-card,And vainly I repineFrom ten to two A.M. Ah me!Would I were forty-nine!She calls me "darling," "pet," and "dear,"And "sweet retiring maid."I'm always at the back, I know,She puts me in the shade.She introduces me to men,"Cast" lovers, I opine,For sixty takes to seventeen,Nineteen to forty-nine.But even She must older growAnd end Her dancing days,She can't go on forever soAt concerts, balls and plays.One ray of priceless hope I seeBefore my footsteps shine;Just think, that She'll be eighty-one When I am forty-nine.
Thst seems a bit like Heine to me.
Caroll is best known for Alice in Wonderland. My favorite of his is:
The Crocodile
How doth the little crocodile
Improve his shining tail,
And pour the waters of the Nile
On every golden scale!
How cheerfully he seems to grin,
How neatly spreads his claws,
And welcomes little fishes in,
With gently smiling jaws!
The crocodile represents the predatory lender. Lurking in the banks of the Nile. Taking a keen interest in fishy deposits.
The Power of the Dog
There is sorrow enough in the natural way
From men and women to fill our day;
And when we are certain of sorrow in store,
Why do we always arrange for more?
Brothers and Sisters, I bid you beware
Of giving your heart to a dog to tear.
Anyone who has owned a pet has been there, or will be all too soon. Love is a vulnerability as the smirking villian who captures the family of the untouchable super hero knows so well.
’Twas brillig, and the slithy toves
Did gyre and gimble in the wabe:
All mimsy were the borogoves,
And the mome raths outgrabe.
“Beware the Jabberwock, my son!
The jaws that bite, the claws that catch!
Beware the Jubjub bird, and shun
The frumious Bandersnatch!”
He took his vorpal sword in hand;
Long time the manxome foe he sought—
So rested he by the Tumtum tree
And stood awhile in thought.
And, as in uffish thought he stood,
The Jabberwock, with eyes of flame,
Came whiffling through the tulgey wood,
And burbled as it came!
One, two! One, two! And through and through
The vorpal blade went snicker-snack!
He left it dead, and with its head
He went galumphing back.
“And hast thou slain the Jabberwock?
Come to my arms, my beamish boy!
O frabjous day! Callooh! Callay!”
He chortled in his joy.
Some people will do anything to get a head. The weird thing about this is I keep seeing grammar and language in all the nonsense. I really shouldn't be writing this high. Btw “chortle” is a made up word here that infiltrated English from this poem.
The Hyaenas After the burial-parties leave And the baffled kites have fled;The wise hyænas come out at eve To take account of our dead. How he died and why he died Troubles them not a whit.They snout the bushes and stones aside And dig till they come to it. They are only resolute they shall eat That they and their mates may thrive,And they know that the dead are safer meat Than the weakest thing alive. (For a goat may butt, and a worm may sting, And a child will sometimes stand;But a poor dead soldier of the King Can never lift a hand.) They whoop and halloo and scatter the dirt Until their tushes whiteTake good hold in the army shirt, And tug the corpse to light, And the pitiful face is shewn again For an instant ere they close;But it is not discovered to living men— Only to God and to those Who, being soulless, are free from shame, Whatever meat they may find.Nor do they defile the dead man’s name— That is reserved for his kind. This kind of shit is why I was scared to camp in southern Africa.
A Pict Song Rome never looks where she treads. Always her heavy hooves fall On our stomachs, our hearts or our heads; And Rome never heeds when we bawl. Her sentries pass on—that is all, And we gather behind them in hordes, And plot to reconquer the Wall, With only our tongues for our swords. We are the Little Folk—we! Too little to love or to hate. Leave us alone and you’ll see How we can drag down the State! We are the worm in the wood! We are the rot at the root! We are the taint in the blood! We are the thorn in the foot! Mistletoe killing an oak— Rats gnawing cables in two— Moths making holes in a cloak— How they must love what they do! Yes—and we Little Folk too, We are busy as they— Working our works out of view— Watch, and you’ll see it some day! No indeed! We are not strong, But we know Peoples that are. Yes, and we’ll guide them along To smash and destroy you in War! We shall be slaves just the same? Yes, we have always been slaves, But you—you will die of the shame, And then we shall dance on your graves! Hard is the hand of Empire and heavy its tread. But Rust never sleeps. Beware Caesar beware insomniac oxidation. This actually sounds anti imperialistic. Im not quoting his worse works because i don't like them. If you are interested, try White mans burden, that should do it. The Walrus and the Carpenter The sun was shining on the sea, Shining with all his might: He did his very best to make The billows smooth and bright — And this was odd, because it was The middle of the night. The moon was shining sulkily, Because she thought the sun Had got no business to be there After the day was done — "It's very rude of him," she said, "To come and spoil the fun." The sea was wet as wet could be, The sands were dry as dry. You could not see a cloud, because No cloud was in the sky: No birds were flying overhead — There were no birds to fly. The Walrus and the Carpenter Were walking close at hand; They wept like anything to see Such quantities of sand: If this were only cleared away,' They said, it would be grand!' If seven maids with seven mops Swept it for half a year, Do you suppose,' the Walrus said, That they could get it clear?' I doubt it,' said the Carpenter, And shed a bitter tear. O Oysters, come and walk with us!' The Walrus did beseech. A pleasant walk, a pleasant talk, Along the briny beach: We cannot do with more than four, To give a hand to each.' The eldest Oyster looked at him, But never a word he said: The eldest Oyster winked his eye, And shook his heavy head — Meaning to say he did not choose To leave the oyster-bed. But four young Oysters hurried up, All eager for the treat: Their coats were brushed, their faces washed, Their shoes were clean and neat — And this was odd, because, you know, They hadn't any feet. Four other Oysters followed them, And yet another four; And thick and fast they came at last, And more, and more, and more — All hopping through the frothy waves, And scrambling to the shore. The Walrus and the Carpenter Walked on a mile or so, And then they rested on a rock Conveniently low: And all the little Oysters stood And waited in a row. The time has come,' the Walrus said, To talk of many things: Of shoes — and ships — and sealing-wax — Of cabbages — and kings — And why the sea is boiling hot — And whether pigs have wings.' But wait a bit,' the Oysters cried, Before we have our chat; For some of us are out of breath, And all of us are fat!' No hurry!' said the Carpenter. They thanked him much for that. A loaf of bread,' the Walrus said, Is what we chiefly need: Pepper and vinegar besides Are very good indeed — Now if you're ready, Oysters dear, We can begin to feed.' But not on us!' the Oysters cried, Turning a little blue. After such kindness, that would be A dismal thing to do!' The night is fine,' the Walrus said. Do you admire the view? It was so kind of you to come! And you are very nice!' The Carpenter said nothing but Cut us another slice: I wish you were not quite so deaf — I've had to ask you twice!' It seems a shame,' the Walrus said, To play them such a trick, After we've brought them out so far, And made them trot so quick!' The Carpenter said nothing but The butter's spread too thick!' I weep for you,' the Walrus said: I deeply sympathize.' With sobs and tears he sorted out Those of the largest size, Holding his pocket-handkerchief Before his streaming eyes. O Oysters,' said the Carpenter, You've had a pleasant run! Shall we be trotting home again?' But answer came there none — And this was scarcely odd, because They'd eaten every one. Oysters are delicious. And they shouldn't blindly follow those who would lead them.
Gold is for the mistress - silver for the maid" -Copper for the craftsman cunning at his trade! " " Good! " said the Baron, sitting in his hall,But Iron - Cold Iron - is master of them all." Ive always liked that quote. The poem goes on to get all alegorical and jesusy, but i love the cynicism here.
They sought it with thimbles, they sought it with care;
They pursued it with forks and hope;
They threatened its life with a railway-share;
They charmed it with smiles and soap.
Why i love Caroll. The snark is almost incomprehensible, even Caroll admitted he had no idea what it meant. But, it did give us the boojum tree!
[END]
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