Like a Vocation

[Era Might]

W.H. Auden - "Like a Vocation"

Not as that dream Napoleon, rumour's dread and centre, 
Before who's riding all the crowds divide, 
Who dedicates a column and withdraws, 
Nor as that general favourite and breezy visitor 
To whom the weather and the ruins mean so much, 
Nor as any of those who always will be welcome, 
As luck or history or fun, 
Do not enter like that: all these depart.

Claim, certainly, the stranger's right to pleasure: 
Ambassadors will surely entertain you 
With knowledge of operas and men, 
Bankers will ask for your opinion 
And the heiress' cheek lean ever so slightly towards you, 
The mountains and the shopkeepers accept you 
And all your walks be free.

But politeness and freedom are never enough, 
Not for a life. They lead 
Up to a bed that only looks like marriage; 
Even the disciplined and distant admiration 
For thousands who obviously want nothing 
Becomes just a dowdy illness. These have their moderate success; 
They exist in the vanishing hour.

But somewhere always, nowhere particularly unusual, 
Almost anywhere in the landscape of water and houses, 
His crying competing unsuccessfully with the cry 
Of the traffic or the birds, is always standing 
The one who needs you, that terrified 
Imaginative child who only knows you 
As what the uncles call a lie, 
But knows he has to be the future and that only 
The meek inherit the earth, and is neither 
Charming, successful, nor a crowd; 
Alone among the noise and policies of summer, 
His weeping climbs towards your life like a vocation.

[Gabriela]

Love Auden. My favorite:

The More Loving One

Looking up at the stars, I know quite well
That, for all they care, I can go to hell,
But on earth indifference is the least
We have to dread from man or beast.

How should we like it were stars to burn
With a passion for us we could not return?
If equal affection cannot be,
Let the more loving one be me.

Admirer as I think I am
Of stars that do not give a damn,
I cannot, now I see them, say
I missed one terribly all day.

Were all stars to disappear or die,
I should learn to look at an empty sky
And feel its total dark sublime,
Though this might take me a little time.

Edited April 20, 2015 by Gabriela

[Spem in alium]

One of my mother's favourites.

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 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.

[Not A Mallard]

Like a vocation
Calling for the very first time

[totustuus20]

Like a vocation
Calling for the very first time

​Exactly what I thought when I read the title for the first time

[Maggyie]

​Exactly what I thought when I read the title for the first time

Ditto...

[Gabriela]

Yeah, me too!

[Era Might]

Weirdos.

[totustuus20]

Weirdos.

​I've accepted it

[Era Might]

Love Auden. My favorite:

The More Loving One

Looking up at the stars, I know quite well
That, for all they care, I can go to hell,
But on earth indifference is the least
We have to dread from man or beast.

How should we like it were stars to burn
With a passion for us we could not return?
If equal affection cannot be,
Let the more loving one be me.

Admirer as I think I am
Of stars that do not give a damn,
I cannot, now I see them, say
I missed one terribly all day.

Were all stars to disappear or die,
I should learn to look at an empty sky
And feel its total dark sublime,
Though this might take me a little time.

​Another I like, "The Fall of Rome":

The piers are pummelled by the waves;
In a lonely field the rain
Lashes an abandoned train;
Outlaws fill the mountain caves.

Fantastic grow the evening gowns;
Agents of the Fisc pursue
Absconding tax-defaulters through
The sewers of provincial towns.

Private rites of magic send
The temple prostitutes to sleep;
All the literati keep
An imaginary friend.

Cerebrotonic Cato may
Extol the Ancient Disciplines,
But the muscle-bound Marines
Mutiny for food and pay.

Caesar’s double-bed is warm
As an unimportant clerk
Writes I DO NOT LIKE MY WORK
On a pink official form.

Unendowed with wealth or pity,
Little birds with scarlet legs,
Sitting on their speckled eggs,
Eye each flu-infected city.

Altogether elsewhere, vast
Herds of reindeer move across
Miles and miles of golden moss,
Silently and very fast.

[Era Might]

Great recitation of the Gerard Manley Hopkins (SJ) poem, "Carrion Comfort":

 

[Gabriela]

Oy. Too much shouting.