Blog On The Genius Of Rudyard Kipling
Blog Posted:2/28/2021 11:58:00 AM
Blog On The Genius Of Rudyard Kipling

In The Shadows Beyond The Lights, Tribute poem



In the shadows beyond the lights

Poe's curse, Raven's dark flights

A land, far beyond sinking moon

Loss and sorrows brought too soon

Groans of our dying mortal coils

Greed for greater earthen spoils

Accursed abyss, blacken Hell

Falling under evil spell.



Wherein the heart's joys are so brief

Stealing away like a thief

As setting sun fading to black

Victim dying to backtrack

Midnight pause, silver crescent fade

Pain, love when one is played

The dark behind sphinx's stony smile

Or birth of hate, mortal guile.



Muffled cries of the recent dead

Chained in rooms of pure dread

Stone walls washed with flowing red

Souls wondering where light fled

Echoes from deep caverns below

Singing in Hell's daily shows

No mercy therein ever cast

Raven's ghouls having a blast.



In the shadows beyond the lights

Poe's curse, Raven's dark flights

A land, far beyond sinking moon

Loss and sorrows brought too soon.



Robert J. Lindley, 2-24- 2021

Dark Rhyme, ( Within The Depths Of Darkest Night )

Tribute to Kipling

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Blog on the genius of Rudyard Kipling

https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poets/rudyard-kipling

Rudyard Kipling

1865–1936

Rudyard Kipling

Rudyard Kipling is one of the best-known of the late Victorian poets and story-tellers. Although he was awarded the Nobel Prize for literature in 1907, his political views, which grew more toxic as he aged, have long made him critically unpopular. In the New Yorker, Charles McGrath remarked “Kipling has been variously labelled a colonialist, a jingoist, a racist, an anti-Semite, a misogynist, a right-wing imperialist warmonger; and—though some scholars have argued that his views were more complicated than he is given credit for—to some degree he really was all those things. That he was also a prodigiously gifted writer who created works of inarguable greatness hardly matters anymore, at least not in many classrooms, where Kipling remains politically toxic.” However, Kipling’s works for children, above all his novel The Jungle Book, first published in 1894, remain part of popular cultural through the many movie versions made and remade since the 1960s.



Kipling was born in Bombay, India, in 1865. His father, John Lockwood Kipling, was principal of the Jeejeebyhoy School of Art, an architect and artist who had come to the colony, writes Charles Cantalupo in the Dictionary of Literary Biography, “to encourage, support, and restore native Indian art against the incursions of British business interests.” He meant to try, Cantalupo continues, “to preserve, at least in part, and to copy styles of art and architecture which, representing a rich and continuous tradition of thousands of years, were suddenly threatened with extinction.” His mother, Alice Macdonald, had connections through her sister’s marriage to the artist Sir Edward Burne-Jones with important members of the Pre-Raphaelite movement in British arts and letters.



Kipling spent the first years of his life in India, remembering it in later years as almost a paradise. “My first impression,” he wrote in his posthumously published autobiography Something of Myself for My Friends Known and Unknown, “is of daybreak, light and colour and golden and purple fruits at the level of my shoulder.” In 1871, however, his parents sent him and his sister Beatrice—called “Trix”—to England, partly to avoid health problems, but also so that the children could begin their schooling. Kipling and his sister were placed with the widow of an old Navy captain named Holloway at a boarding house called Lorne Lodge in Southsea, a suburb of Portsmouth. Kipling and Trix spent the better part of the next six years in that place, which they came to call the “House of Desolation.”

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Blog on Rudyard Kipling

(1.)

Poem titled

- Recessional

Written by Rudyard Kipling-1897

God of our fathers, known of old,

Lord of our far-flung battle-line,

Beneath whose awful Hand we hold

Dominion over palm and pine—

Lord God of Hosts, be with us yet,

Lest we forget—lest we forget!



The tumult and the shouting dies;

The Captains and the Kings depart:

Still stands Thine ancient sacrifice,

An humble and a contrite heart.



Lord God of Hosts, be with us yet,

Lest we forget—lest we forget!



Far-called, our navies melt away;

On dune and headland sinks the fire:

Lo, all our pomp of yesterday

Is one with Nineveh and Tyre!

Judge of the Nations, spare us yet,

Lest we forget—lest we forget!



If, drunk with sight of power, we loose

Wild tongues that have not Thee in awe,

Such boastings as the Gentiles use,

Or lesser breeds without the Law—

Lord God of Hosts, be with us yet,

Lest we forget—lest we forget!



For heathen heart that puts her trust

In reeking tube and iron shard,

All valiant dust that builds on dust,

And guarding, calls not Thee to guard,

For frantic boast and foolish word—

Thy mercy on Thy People, Lord!

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(2.)

Mesopotamia

BY RUDYARD KIPLING

1917

They shall not return to us, the resolute, the young,

The eager and whole-hearted whom we gave:

But the men who left them thriftily to die in their own dung,

Shall they come with years and honour to the grave?



They shall not return to us, the strong men coldly slain

In sight of help denied from day to day:

But the men who edged their agonies and chid them in their pain,

Are they too strong and wise to put away?



Our dead shall not return to us while Day and Night divide—

Never while the bars of sunset hold.

But the idle-minded overlings who quibbled while they died,

Shall they thrust for high employments as of old?



Shall we only threaten and be angry for an hour?

When the storm is ended shall we find

How softly but how swiftly they have sidled back to power

By the favour and contrivance of their kind?



Even while they soothe us, while they promise large amends,

Even while they make a show of fear,

Do they call upon their debtors, and take counsel with their friends,

To conform and re-establish each career?



Their lives cannot repay us—their death could not undo—

The shame that they have laid upon our race.

But the slothfulness that wasted and the arrogance that slew,

Shall we leave it unabated in its place?

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(3.)

https://www.poetryloverspage.com/poe...andth_man.html

The Thousandth Man

"SIMPLE SIMON" -- REWARDS AND FAIRIES



One man in a thousand, Solomon says,

Will stick more close than a brother.

And it's worth while seeking him half your days

If you find him before the other.

Nine nundred and ninety-nine depend

On what the world sees in you,

But the Thousandth man will stand your friend

With the whole round world agin you.



'Tis neither promise nor prayer nor show

Will settle the finding for 'ee.

Nine hundred and ninety-nine of 'em go

By your looks, or your acts, or your glory.

But if he finds you and you find him.

The rest of the world don't matter;

For the Thousandth Man will sink or swim

With you in any water.



You can use his purse with no more talk

Than he uses yours for his spendings,

And laugh and meet in your daily walk

As though there had been no lendings.

Nine hundred and ninety-nine of 'em call

For silver and gold in their dealings;

But the Thousandth Man h's worth 'em all,

Because you can show him your feelings.



His wrong's your wrong, and his right's your right,

In season or out of season.

Stand up and back it in all men's sight --

With that for your only reason!

Nine hundred and ninety-nine can't bide

The shame or mocking or laughter,

But the Thousandth Man will stand by your side

To the gallows-foot -- and after!