Doggerel by a Senior Citizen

Doggerel by a Senior Citizen

por W. H. Auden

(for Robert Lederer)

Our earth in 1969
 Is not the planet I call mine,
 The world, I mean, that gives me strength
 To hold off chaos at arm’s length.

 My Eden landscapes and their climes
 Are constructs from Edwardian times,
 When bath—rooms took up lots of space,
 And, before eating, one said Grace.

 The automobile, the aeroplane,
 Are useful gadgets, but profane:
 The enginry of which I dream
 Is moved by water or by steam.

 Reason requires that I approve
 The light—bulb which I cannot love:
 To me more reverence—commanding
 A fish—tail burner on the landing.

 My family ghosts I fought and routed,
 Their values, though, I never doubted:
 I thought the Protestant Work—Ethic
 Both practical and sympathetic.

 When couples played or sang duets,
 It was immoral to have debts:
 I shall continue till I die
 To pay in cash for what I buy.

 The Book of Common Prayer we knew
 Was that of 1662:
 Though with—it sermons may be well,
 Liturgical reforms are hell.

 Sex was of course —it always is —
 The most enticing of mysteries,
 But news—stands did not then supply
 Manichean pornography.

 Then Speech was mannerly, an Art,
 Like learning not to belch or fart:
 I cannot settle which is worse,
 The Anti—Novel or Free Verse.

 Nor are those Ph.D’s my kith,
 Who dig the symbol and the myth:
 I count myself a man of letters
 Who writes, or hopes to, for his betters.

 Dare any call Permissiveness
 An educational success?
 Saner those class—rooms which I sat in,
 Compelled to study Greek and Latin.

 Though I suspect the term is crap,
 There is a Generation Gap,
 Who is to blame? Those, old or young,
 Who will not learn their Mother—Tongue.

 But Love, at least, is not a state
 Either en vogue or out—of—date,
 And I’ve true friends, I will allow,
 To talk and eat with here and now.

 Me alienated? Bosh! It’s just
 As a sworn citizen who must
 Skirmish with it that I feel
 Most at home with what is Real.

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Otros poemas de W. H. Auden (leer al azar)

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,

Underneath an abject willow,
Lover, sulk no more:
Act from thought should quickly follow.

I. The Door
Out of it steps our future, through this door
Enigmas, executioners and rules,

Time can say nothing but I told you so,
Time only knows the price we have to pay;
If I could tell you, I would let you know.

Sharp and silent in the
Clear October lighting
Of a Sunday morning

This lunar beauty
Has no history
Is complete and early,

Lady, weeping at the crossroads,
Would you meet your love
In the twilight with his greyhounds,

Eyes look into the well,
Tears run down from the eye;
The tower cracked and fell

Fish in the unruffled lakes
Their swarming colours wear,
Swans in the winter air

Poet, oracle and wit
Like unsuccessful anglers by
Th ponds of apperception sit,

On this day tradition allots
to taking stock of our lives,
my greetings to all of you, Yeasts,

Unbiased at least he was when he arrived on his mis …
Having never set eyes on the land he was called to …
Between two peoples fanatica...

Nobody I know would like to be buried
with a silver cocktail-shaker,
a transistor radio and a strangled

At Dirty Dick’s and Sloppy Joe’s
We drank our liquor straight,
Some went upstairs with Margery,

Driver drive faster and make a good run
Down the Springfield Line under the shining sun.
Fly like an aeroplane, don’t pull up short

“The underground roads
Are, as the dead prefer them,
Always tortuous.”

Unrhymed, unrhythmical, the chatter goes:
Yet no one hears his own remarks as prose.
Beneath each topic tunelessly discussed

Say this city has ten million souls,
Some are living in mansions, some are living in hol …
Yet there’s no place for us, my dear, yet there’s n

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