Auden thinks 'Hamlet' as a play is a failure because you can't logic your way out of it, it doesn't make sense that Hamlet feels so betrayed by his mother, by Ophelia, and it doesn't make sense that he believes a ghost which could be his father's ghost or could be a spirit lying to him and it doesn't make sense that Hamlet can't decide whether to avenge his father or not and he sets up elaborate plans that might not come to fruition
And I'm just screaming softly into my hands like grief doesn't make sense and loss doesn't make sense and other people moving on when your whole life is broken apart and you won't have the future that was promised to you (a loving father a perfect mother the woman of your dreams the throne that's your birthright except it isn't anymore) doesn't make sense
278 notes
·
View notes
I found this feather stuck inside a book of poetry by W.H Auden, next to a poem called “Reflections in a Forest”.
Here’s the full text of the poem:
Within a shadowland of trees
Whose lives are so uprightly led
In nude august communities,
To move about seems underbred
And common any taste for words;
When, thoughtlessly, they took to song,
Whatever one may think of birds,
The example that they set was wrong.
In keeping still, in staying slow
For posture and for social ease,
How much these living statues ow
Their scent-and-color languages.
For who can quarrel without terms
For Not or Never, who can raise
Objections when what one affirms
Is necessarily the case?
But trees are trees, an alm or oak
Already both outside and in,
And cannot, therefore, counsel folk
Who have their unity to win.
Turn all tree-signals into speech,
And what comes out is a command:
'Keep running if you want to reach
The point of knowing where you stand.'
A truth at which one should arrive,
Forbids immediate utterance,
And tongues to speak it must contrive
To tell two different lies at once.
My chance of growing would be slim,
Were I with wooden honesty
To show my hand or heart to Him
Who will, if I should lose, be Me.
Our race would not have gotten far,
Had we not learned to bluff it out
And look more certain than we are
Of what our motion is about:
Nor need one be a cop to find
Undressing before others rude:
The most ascetic of our kind
Looks naked in the buff, not nude.
44 notes
·
View notes
W.H. Auden, “Their Lonely Betters,” Nones (1951)
My friend Alan recited this aloud to me in my backyard yesterday and it was just perfect.
Can you spot the allusion to Robert Frost?
73 notes
·
View notes
The More Loving One - W.H. Auden - UK
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.
16 notes
·
View notes
Epitaph On A Tyrant
Perfection, of a kind, was what he was after,
And the poetry he invented was easy to understand;
He knew human folly like the back of his hand,
And was greatly interested in armies and fleets;
When he laughed, respectable senators burst with laughter,
And when he cried the little children died in the streets.
- W.H. Auden
79 notes
·
View notes