Стихи и эссе - Уистан Оден

At last the secret is out…

At last the secret is out, as it always must come in the end,The delicious story is ripe to tell to the intimate friend;Over the tea-cups and in the square the tongue has its desire;Still waters run deep, my dear, there's never smoke without fire.

Behind the corpse in the reservoir, behind the ghost on the links,Behind the lady who dances and the man who madly drinks,Under the look of fatigue, the attack of migraine and the sighThere is always another story, there is more than meets the eye.

For the clear voice suddenly singing, high up on the cement wall,The scent of the elder bushes, the sporting prints in the hall,The croquet matches in summer, the handshake, the cough, the kiss,There is always a wicked secret, a private reason for this.

The Chimney Sweepers

The chimney sweepers    Wash their faces and forget to wash the neck;The lighthouse keepers   Let the lamps go out and leave the ships to wreck;The prosperous baker   Leaves the rolls in hundreds in the oven to burn;The undertaker   Puts a small note on the coffin saying: "Wait till I return,I've got a date with Love!"

And deep-sea divers   Cut their boots off and come bubbling to the top;And engine drivers   Bring expresses in the tunnel to a stop;The village rector   Dashes down the side-aisle half-way through a psalm;The sanitary inspector   Runs off with the cover of the cesspool on his arm —To  keep his date with Love!

"What's in Your Mind, My Dove, My Coney…"

What's in your mind, my dove, my coney;Do thoughts grow like feathers, the dead end of life;Is it making of love or counting of money,Or raid on the jewels, the plans of a thief?

Open your eyes, my dearest dallier;Let hunt with your hands for escaping me;Go through the motions of exploring the familiarStand on the brink of the warm white day.

Rise with the wind, my great big serpent;Silence the birds and darken the air;Change me with terror, alive in a moment;Strike for the heart and have me there.

Happy Ending

The silly fool, the silly foolWas sillier in schoolBut beat the bully as a rule

The youngest son, the youngest sonWas certainly no wise oneYet could surprise one.

Or rather, or rather,To be posh, we gatherOne should have no father.

Simple to proveThat deeds indeedIn life succeed,But love in love,And tales in talesWhere no one fails.

Foxtrot from a Play

The soldier loves his rifle,   The scholar loves his books,The farmer loves his horses,   The film star loves her looks.There's love the whole world over   Wherever you may be;Some lose their rest for gay Mae West,   But you're my cup of tea.

Some talk of Alexander   And some of Fred Astaire,Some like their heroes hairy   Some like them debonair,Some prefer a curate   And some an A.D.C.,Some like a tough to treat'em rough,   But you're my cup of tea.

Some are mad on Airedales   And some on Pekinese,On tabby cats or parrots   Or guinea pigs or geese.There are patients in asylums   Who think that they're a tree;I had an ant who loved a plant,   But you're my cup of tea.

Some have sagging waistlines  And some a bulbous noseAnd some a floating kidney   And some have hammer toes,Some have tennis elbow   And some have housemaid's knee,And some I know have got B.O.,   But you're my cup of tea.

The blackbird loves the earthworm,   The adder loves the sun,The polar bear an iceberg,  The elephant a bun,The trout enjoys the river,  The whale enjoys the sea,And dogs love most an old lamp-post,   But you're my cup of tea.

Musee des Beaux Arts

About suffering they were never wrong,The Old Masters: how well they understoodIts human position; how it takes placeWhile someone else is eatting or opening a window                       or just walking dully along;How, when the aged are reverently, passionately waitingFor the miraculous birth, there always must beChildren who did not specially want it to happen, skatingOn the pond at the edge of the wood:

They never forgotThat even the dreadful martydrom must run its courseAnyhow in a corner, some untidy spotWhere the dogs go on with their doggy life and the torturer's horseScratches its innocent behind in a tree.

In Brueghel's Icarus, for instance: how everything turns awayQuite leisurely from the disaster; the ploughman mayHave heard the splash, the forsaken cry,But for him it was not an important failure; the sun shoneAs it had to on the white legs disappearing into the greenWater; and the expensive delicate ship that must have seenSomething amazing, a boy falling out of the sky,Somewhere to get to and sailed calmly on.

Who is Who?

A shilling life will give you all the facts:How Father beat him, how he ran away,What were the struggles of his youth, what actsMade him the greatest figure of his day

Of how he fought, fished, hunted, worked all night,Though giddy, climbed new mountains; named a sea:Some of the last researchers even writeLove made him weep his pints like you and me.

With all his honours on, he sighed for one,Who, say astonished critics, lived at home;Did little jobs about the house with skillAnd nothing else; could whistle; would sit stillOr potter round the garden; answered someOf his long marvelous letters but kept none

The Ship

All streets are brightly lit; our city is kept clean;Her Third-Class deal from greasy packs, her First bid high;Her beggars banished to the bows have never seenWhat can be done in state-rooms: no one asks why.

Lovers are writing latters, athletes playing ball,One doubts the virtue, one the beauty of his wife,A boy's ambitious: perhaps the Captain hates us all;Someone perhaps is leading a civilised life.

Slowly our Western culture in full pomp progressesOver the barren plains of the sea;  somewhere aheadA septic East, odd fowl and flowers, odder dresses:

Somewhere a strange and shrewd To-morrow goes to bed,Planning a test for men from Europe; no one guessesWho will be most ashamed, who richer, and who dead.

"O, Tell Me The Truth About Love"

Some say that love 's a little boy,    And some say it's a bird,Some say it makes the world go round,    And 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    Account of suicides,And even seen it scribbled on    The back 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 it's 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 ever 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.

Their Lonely Betters

As I listened from a beach-chair in the shadeTo all the noises that my garden made,It seemed to me only proper that wordsShould be withheld from vegetables and birds.

A robin with no Christian name ran throughThe Robin-Anthem which was all it knew,And rustling flowers for some third party waitedTo say which pairs, if any, should get mated.

Not one of them was capable of lying,There was not one which knew that it was dyingOr could have with a rhythm or a rhymeAssumed responsibility for time.

Let them leave language to their lonely bettersWho count some days and long for certain letters;We, too, make noises when we laugh or weep:Words are for those with promises to keep.

Shorts

Pick a quarrel, go to war,Leave the hero in the bar;Hunt the lion, climb the peak:No one guesses you are weak.

The friends of the born nurseAre always getting worse.

I'm beginning to lose patienceWith my personal relations:They are not deep,And they are not cheap.

I'm for freedom because I mistrust the Censor in office,But if I held the job, my! how severe I should be!

When he is wellShe gives him hell;But she's a brickWhen he is sick.

Those who will not reasonPerish in the act;Those who will not actPerish for that reason.

Let us honor if we canThe vertical man,Though we value noneBut the horizontal one.

Private facesIn public placesAre wiser and nicerThan public facesIn private places.

The conversation of birdsSay very little,But mean a great deal.

Among the mammalsOnly Man has earsThat can display no emotion.

In moments of joyAll of us wish we possessedA tail we could wag.

The shame in ageingis not that Desire should fail(Who mourns for somethinghe no longer needs?): it isThat someone else must be told.

The tyrant's device:Whatever is PosiibleIs Necessary.

Passing Beautystill delights him,but he no longerhas to turn round.

Does God ever judge usby appearances?I suspect that He does.

Today two poems begged to be written: I had to refuse them.Sorry, no longer, my dear! Sorry, my precious, not yet!

Only look in the mirror to detect a removable blamish,As of the permanent ones already you know quite enough.

God never makes knots,But is expert, if asked to,At untying them.

A poet's hope: to be,Like some valley cheese,Local, but prized elsewhere.

WORDS