2007 is the centenary of W.H. Auden, pictured, one of Eyewear's beloved poets. Look out for some important new publications or new versions in April, this year. Meanwhile, the major English poet James Fenton (who read last year for the Oxfam series) has a fascinating essay in today's Guardian on him, see link below; one thing that emerges, that I did not know, was that Auden did not enjoy the idea of poems being too well-performed by their authors in public, and disapproved of readings that were too much like advertisements; I suspect he would have disapproved of my own reading style, then. Chastened, I may subdue my theatrics.Also below, a poem I wrote for Auden, which play off of, among other things, the photo image presented here. I offer my earliest draft, in ironic inversion of Auden's own habit of altering his young work later, often harming it.
Auden In Snow
I’d love you until the snow turned black and white,
And history melted into a photograph. You come
Towards me, now no bigger than a thumb, coated
As shabbily as Delmore Schwartz, down some
Nameless New York street, from dive to blizzard,
Your face that familiar map of crumpled age,
As if your face was a torn out page manhandled
By a child with a distaste for verse circa 1930-1960;
You show your age, you show us all how to go
Through the bright cold confetti of the image, on
Straight into the lens, both hands pocketed, secure
In the stroll: your body says the lag is over, this,
For now, was home. I’d follow you, Wystan, if
I had the clothes, the haircut, the wrinkles, the poems,
Or the desire. Seeing you makes me want to rage
Against hot days and apolitical formalists who seem
To stake their claims on half of what you did,
Without looking under the shield as well. Mid-
Term and after any election, the legislators change,
But never the powers that grace them briefly, like sun
Will deign to elect a flower for its silly noon, until,
The shadow is slid into the neglecting position,
And nature is hurt as all tropic lovers must be. Hard,
To have known so much, and to have moved, stayed.
I would have wanted to kneel by you as you prayed,
As much as propped my elbows at the bar when you
Lined them up, and drank them down. Bourbon,
Or whatever poison it was that made you late home.
Maybe I am a sucker for old-time well-turned verse.
Regardless of why, I’d gladly kiss your snow-wet boots
And ride shotgun down Fifth Avenue on your hearse
To hold off the enemies of Plato and each humane love.
I’d love you until the snow turned black and white,
And history melted into a photograph. You come
Towards me, now no bigger than a thumb, coated
As shabbily as Delmore Schwartz, down some
Nameless New York street, from dive to blizzard,
Your face that familiar map of crumpled age,
As if your face was a torn out page manhandled
By a child with a distaste for verse circa 1930-1960;
You show your age, you show us all how to go
Through the bright cold confetti of the image, on
Straight into the lens, both hands pocketed, secure
In the stroll: your body says the lag is over, this,
For now, was home. I’d follow you, Wystan, if
I had the clothes, the haircut, the wrinkles, the poems,
Or the desire. Seeing you makes me want to rage
Against hot days and apolitical formalists who seem
To stake their claims on half of what you did,
Without looking under the shield as well. Mid-
Term and after any election, the legislators change,
But never the powers that grace them briefly, like sun
Will deign to elect a flower for its silly noon, until,
The shadow is slid into the neglecting position,
And nature is hurt as all tropic lovers must be. Hard,
To have known so much, and to have moved, stayed.
I would have wanted to kneel by you as you prayed,
As much as propped my elbows at the bar when you
Lined them up, and drank them down. Bourbon,
Or whatever poison it was that made you late home.
Maybe I am a sucker for old-time well-turned verse.
Regardless of why, I’d gladly kiss your snow-wet boots
And ride shotgun down Fifth Avenue on your hearse
To hold off the enemies of Plato and each humane love.
poem by Todd Swift
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