Poesie di Rudyard Kipling

Scrittore e poeta, nato sabato 30 dicembre 1865 a Mumbai (India), morto sabato 18 gennaio 1936 a Middlesex Hospital, Londra (Regno Unito)
Questo autore lo trovi anche in Frasi & Aforismi e in Racconti.

Scritta da: Silvana Stremiz

An American

If the Led Striker call it a strike,
 Or the papers call it a war,
They know not much what I am like,
 Nor what he is, My Avatar.

Through many roads, by me possessed,
 He shambles forth in cosmic guise;
He is the Jester and the Jest,
 And he the Text himself applies.

The Celt is in his heart and hand,
 The Gaul is in his brain and nerve;
Where, cosmopolitanly planned,
 He guards the Redskin's dry reserve

His easy unswept hearth he lends
 From Labrador to Guadeloupe;
Till, elbowed out by sloven friends,
 He camps, at sufferance, on the stoop.

Calm-eyed he scoffs at Sword and Crown,
 Or, panic-blinded, stabs and slays:
Blatant he bids the world bow down,
 Or cringing begs a crust of praise;

Or, sombre-drunk, at mine and mart,
 He dubs his dreary brethren Kings.
His hands are black with blood -- his heart
 Leaps, as a babe's, at little things.

But, through the shift of mood and mood,
 Mine ancient humour saves him whole --
The cynic devil in his blood
 That bids him mock his hurrying soul;

That bids him flout the Law he makes,
 That bids him make the Law he flouts,
Till, dazed by many doubts, he wakes
 The drumming guns that -- have no doubts;

That checks him foolish-hot and fond,
 That chuckles through his deepest ire,
That gilds the slough of his despond
 But dims the goal of his desire;

Inopportune, shrill-accented,
 The acrid Asiatic mirth
That leaves him, careless 'mid his dead,
 The scandal of the elder earth.

How shall he clear himself, how reach
 Your bar or weighed defence prefer --
A brother hedged with alien speech

Which knowledge vexes him a space;
 But, while Reproof around him rings,
He turns a keen untroubled face
 Home, to the instant need of things.

Enslaved, illogical, elate,
 He greets the embarrassed Gods, nor fears
To shake the iron hand of Fate
 Or match with Destiny for beers.

Lo, imperturbable he rules,
 Unkempt, desreputable, vast --
And, in the teeth of all the schools,
 I -- I shall save him at the last!
Rudyard Kipling
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    Scritta da: Silvana Stremiz

    The Advertisement

    Whether to wend through straight streets strictly,
    Trimly by towns perfectly paved;
    Or after office, as fitteth thy fancy,
    Faring with friends far among fields;
    There is none other equal in action,
    Sith she is silent, nimble, unnoisome,
    Lordly of leather, gaudily gilded,
    Burgeoning brightly in a brass bonnet,
    Certain to steer well between wains.
    Rudyard Kipling
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      Scritta da: Silvana Stremiz
      Ahasuerus jenkins of the "Operatic Own"
      Was dowered with a tenor voice of super-Santley tone.
      His views on equitation were, perhaps, a trifle queer.
      He had no seat worth mentioning, but oh! He had an ear.

      He clubbed his wretched company a dozen times a day;
      He used to quit his charger in a parabolic way;
      His method of saluting was the joy of all beholders,
      But Ahasuerus Jenkins had a head upon his shoulders.

      He took two months at Simla when the year was at the spring,
      And underneath the deodars eternally did sing.
      He warbled like a bul-bul but particularly at
      Cornelia Agrippina, who was musical and fat.

      She controlled a humble husband, who, in turn, controlled a Dept.
      Where Cornelia Agrippina's human singing-birds were kept
      From April to October on a plump retaining-fee,
      Supplied, of course, per mensem, by the Indian Treasury.

      Cornelia used to sing with him, and Jenkins used to play;
      He praised unblushingly her notes, for he was false as they;
      So when the winds of April turned the budding roses brown,
      Cornelia told her husband: -- "Tom, you mustn't send him down. "

      They haled him from his regiment, which didn't much regret him;
      They found for him an office-stool, and on that stool they set him
      To play with maps and catalogues three idle hours a day,
      And draw his plump retaining-fee -- which means his double pay.

      Now, ever after dinner, when the coffee-cups are brought,
      Ahasuerus waileth o'er the grand pianoforte;
      And, thanks to fair Cornelia, his fame hath waxen great,
      And Ahasuerus Jenkins is a Power in the State!
      Rudyard Kipling
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        Scritta da: Silvana Stremiz
        A great and glorious thing it is
        To learn, for seven years or so,
        The Lord knows what of that and this,
        Ere reckoned fit to face the foe --
        The flying bullet down the Pass,
        That whistles clear: "All flesh is grass."

        Three hundred pounds per annum spent
        On making brain and body meeter
        For all the murderous intent
        Comprised in "villanous saltpetre!"
        And after -- ask the Yusufzaies
        What comes of all our 'ologies.

        A scrimmage in a Border Station --
        A canter down some dark defile --
        Two thousand pounds of education
        Drops to a ten-rupee jezail --
        The Crammer's boast, the Squadron's pride,
        Shot like a rabbit in a ride!

        No proposition Euclid wrote,
        No formulae the text-books know,
        Will turn the bullet from your coat,
        Or ward the tulwar's downward blow
        Strike hard who cares -- shoot straight who can --
        The odds are on the cheaper man.

        One sword-knot stolen from the camp
        Will pay for all the school expenses
        Of any Kurrum Valley scamp
        Who knows no word of moods and tenses,
        But, being blessed with perfect sight,
        Picks off our messmates left and right.

        With home-bred hordes the hillsides teem,
        The troopships bring us one by one,
        At vast expense of time and steam,
        To slay Afridis where they run.
        The "captives of our bow and spear"
        Are cheap, alas! As we are dear.
        Rudyard Kipling
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          Scritta da: Silvana Stremiz

          The appeal

          If I have given you delight
          By aught that I have done,
          Let me lie quiet in that night
          Which shall be yours anon:
          And for the little, little, span
          The dead are borne in mind,
          Seek not to question other than
          The books I leave behind
          Se qualche diletto vi ho pur dato
          per qualcosa che io abbia operato,
          possa ora giacer sereno in quella notte
          che sarà anche vostra quando che sia:
          e per quel poco, poco spazio
          che i morti rioccupano nelle menti,
          vorrei che altro non cercaste
          che i libri che mi lasciai dietro.
          Rudyard Kipling
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