b.z. niditch | auden's cry

W.H. Auden


Nature pardons
or fools
every garden variety
orator or poet
when any class rules
who give up on society
over its literary schools,

From platforms of politics
in Trafalgar Square
everyone seems
conforming to panegyrics
for the devil – make care,

Even when they know
it’s time to go
because of word loss
they won’t admit it
when they’ve lost
being in the know,

not forgetting the arty
to turn on his Party
Auden will show himself
giving up his Labour card
for the long suffering
cross of Soren Kierkegaard,

bidding a U.K. farewell
for American exile
writing curious letters
fearful of the hell
of his betters’ smile,
without a lover
he takes cover
without a music sound
in a long recital corridor
but not underground,

for what is modern
is his pretext
like Dante he goes
into his own Hades,
checks in among gents
and sexy ladies,

passing over time
we hear your cry
in the lion’s den
with communion wine
to dine and forgive
over unleavened bread,
when speaking
now of Auden’s oblivion
in the land of the dying
and the dead.

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