The Betrothed -- Rudyard Kipling

Inspired by yesterday's poem...

(Poem #1922) The Betrothed "You must choose between me and your cigar." --BREACH OF PROMISE CASE, CIRCA 1885. Open the old cigar-box, get me a Cuba stout, For things are running crossways, and Maggie and I are out. We quarrelled about Havanas--we fought o'er a good cheroot, And I know she is exacting, and she says I am a brute. Open the old cigar-box--let me consider a space; In the soft blue veil of the vapour musing on Maggie's face. Maggie is pretty to look at--Maggie's a loving lass, But the prettiest cheeks must wrinkle, the truest of loves must pass. There's peace in a Laranaga, there's calm in a Henry Clay, But the best cigar in an hour is finished and thrown away-- Thrown away for another as perfect and ripe and brown-- But I could not throw away Maggie for fear o' the talk o' the town! Maggie, my wife at fifty--gray and dour and old-- With never another Maggie to purchase for love or gold! And the light of Days that have Been the dark of the Days that Are, And Love's torch stinking and stale, like the butt of a dead cigar-- The butt of a dead cigar you are bound to keep in your pocket-- With never a new one to light tho' it's charred and black to the socket. Open the old cigar-box--let me consider awhile-- Here is a mild Manilla--there is a wifely smile. Which is the better portion--bondage bought with a ring, Or a harem of dusky beauties fifty tied in a string? Counsellors cunning and silent--comforters true and tried, And never a one of the fifty to sneer at a rival bride. Thought in the early morning, solace in time of woes, Peace in the hush of the twilight, balm ere my eyelids close. This will the fifty give me, asking naught in return, With only a Suttee's passion--to do their duty and burn. This will the fifty give me. When they are spent and dead, Five times other fifties shall be my servants instead. The furrows of far-off Java, the isles of the Spanish Main, When they hear my harem is empty, will send me my brides again. I will take no heed to their raiment, nor food for their mouths withal, So long as the gulls are nesting, so long as the showers fall. I will scent 'em with best Vanilla, with tea will I temper their hides, And the Moor and the Mormon shall envy who read of the tale of my brides. For Maggie has written a letter that gives me my choice between The wee little whimpering Love and the great god Nick o' Teen. And I have been servant of Love for barely a twelve-month clear, But I have been Priest of Partagas a matter of seven year; And the gloom of my bachelor days is flecked with the cheery light Of stumps that I burned to Friendship and Pleasure and Work and Fight. And I turn my eyes to the future that Maggie and I must prove, But the only light on the marshes is the Will-o'-the-Wisp of Love. Will it see me safe through my journey or leave me bogged in the mire? Since a puff of tobacco can cloud it, shall I follow the fitful fire? Open the old cigar-box--let me consider anew-- Old friends, and who is Maggie that I should abandon you? A million surplus Maggies are willing to bear the yoke; And a woman is only a woman, but a good cigar is a Smoke. Light me another Cuba--I hold to my first-sworn vows, If Maggie will have no rival, I'll have no Maggie for spouse! -- Rudyard Kipling

This is one of those poems that I remembered mostly because I liked a
fragment of it, in this case the wonderfully flowing line

 And a woman is only a woman, but a good cigar is a Smoke.

In truth, when I went to read it again, I was rather disappointed - the
premise is clever enough, and there are some nice lines, but overall the
poem felt like it was trying to squeeze too much out of a single idea, and
ended up sounding rather dull in consequence.

I do have to wonder, considering my usual high regard of Kipling's poetry,
whether this is at least in part because, not being a smoker myself, I have
no emotional or visceral reaction to anything in the poem, and that makes
potentially moving, stirring or humorous lines fall flat. What say those of
you who do indulge? Is this actually one of Kipling's nail-on-the-head poems
that I simply lack the context to appreciate? Or is this indeed one of the
rare times when he has simply missed the mark?

martin

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A School Song -- Rudyard Kipling

Guest poem sent in by Priscilla Jebaraj

(Poem #1905) A School Song "Let us now praise famous men"-- Men of little showing-- For their work continueth, And their work continueth, Greater than their knowing. Western wind and open surge Tore us from our mothers; Flung us on a naked shore (Twelve bleak houses by the shore! Seven summers by the shore!) 'Mid two hundred brothers. There we met with famous men Set in office o'er us. And they beat on us with rods-- Faithfully with many rods-- Daily beat us on with rods-- For the love they bore us! Out of Egypt unto Troy-- Over Himalaya-- Far and sure our bands have gone-- Hy-Brasil or Babylon, Islands of the Southern Run, And cities of Cathaia! And we all praise famous men-- Ancients of the College; For they taught us common sense--- Tried to teach us common sense-- Truth and God's Own Common Sense Which is more than knowledge! Each degree of Latitude Strung about Creation Seeth one (or more) of us, (Of one muster all of us-- Of one master all of us--) Keen in his vocation. This we learned from famous men Knowing not its uses When they showed in daily work Man must finish off his work-- Right or wrong, his daily work- And without excuses. Servants of the staff and chain, Mine and fuse and grapnel-- Some before the face of Kings, Stand before the face of Kings; Bearing gifts to divers Kings-- Gifts of Case and Shrapnel. This we learned from famous men Teaching in our borders. Who declare'd it was best, Safest, easiest and best-- Expeditious, wise and best-- To obey your orders. Some beneath the further stars Bear the greater burden. Set to serve the lands they rule, (Save he serve no man may rule) Serve and love the lands they rule; Seeking praise nor guerdon. This we learned from famous men Knowing not we learned it. Only, as the years went by-- Lonely, as the years went by-- Far from help as years went by Plainer we discerned it. Wherefore praise we famous men Prom whose bays we borrow-- They that put aside Today-- All the joys of their Today-- And with toil of their Today Bought for us Tomorrow! Bless and praise we famous men Men of little showing! For their work continueth And their work continueth Broad and deep continueth Great beyond their knowing! -- Rudyard Kipling

I'm not sure this qualifies for the theme --  it's the introductory poem to
Kipling's school story "Stalky and Co", but the school IS called the
College :)  (If you don't want to use it for this theme, why not save it up
for Teacher's Day on September 5?) [Works for me - it fits the theme in
spirit, at least - martin]

I must admit I'm submitting the poem largely because I loved the book.  I
remember discovering it during my own college days...fed up of exams and
literary criticism essays, I was rummaging through WCC's dusty and
unorganised fiction library looking for something light and entertaining
when I found "Stalky and Co". I laughed my way through the antics of Stalky,
Beetle and M'Turk, sparing hardly a thought for their poor teachers.

Interesting, then, that the opening lines of the book are a paean to those
same teachers. To me, they seem idealistic in a way the book is not. But
I've realised the truth of some of it now...while I feel none of the sheer
affection for my college professors that I did for elementary school
teachers for example, it's certainly true that I did learn so many things
from them without even realising it:

  This we learned from famous men
  Knowing not we learned it.

And certainly my favourite teachers were those who...

 ...taught us common sense---
 Tried to teach us common sense--
 Truth and God's Own Common Sense
 Which is more than knowledge!

I like the rhythm of the poem without being able to explain why (obviously,
I remember little of the lectures which attempted to teach me such basics of
poetry appreciation!)

Stalky and Co is rather different from the typical school story, both the
schoolboy tales of its own time or the more modern schoolgirl exploits I
devoured in middle school. Here's an essay that explores both the negative
and positive aspects of those differences and provides quite a good
background to the book: http://www.kipling.org.uk/rg_stalky_intro.htm#top

I'm just quoting an excerpt from it here:

  Stalky & Co. is the only school story which shows school as a direct
  preparation for life. Most others actually make the world outside
  school seem irrelevant, an anticlimax, an unimaginable void. Kipling,
  for all his intense feeling for the school atmosphere and the moods of
  adolescence, shows school as the first stage of a much larger game, a
  pattern-maker for the experiences of life. This is mainly what makes
  it unlike the others, with their narrow, school-centred preoccupations
  and their belief, often implied and sometimes even stated, in the
  overwhelming importance of this preliminary stage of life, which was
  actually presumed to outdo the rest in importance. In Kipling, not
  only is a later life envisaged very clearly at school, but the
  divisions between school and the world outside are less clearly
  defined than they are in most other school stories; not just in the
  sense that the boys make free with the surrounding countryside and
  hobnob happily with the locals, bilingual in standard English and
  broad Devon, but in a metaphorical sense: school teaches lessons
  (obviously), but, less obviously, the lessons are much more than those
  of the classroom. It teaches the boys how to live..."

And while this link between school/college and life is made clear in the
last chapter (a kind of epilogue that traces the later imperialistic careers
of its main characters), it's foreshadowed in this introductory poem as
well.

Priscilla

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The King -- Rudyard Kipling

Guest poem sent in by Tamsin Bacchus

Today's poem [Dobson's "On The Hurry Of This Time"] made me think of this by
Kipling:

(Poem #1902) The King "Farewell, Romance!" the Cave-men said; "With bone well carved He went away, Flint arms the ignoble arrowhead, And jasper tips the spear to-day. Changed are the Gods of Hunt and Dance, And He with these. Farewell, Romance!" "Farewell, Romance!" the Lake-folk sighed; "We lift the weight of flatling years; The caverns of the mountain-side Hold him who scorns our hutted piers. Lost hills whereby we dare not dwell, Guard ye His rest. Romance, farewell!" "Farewell, Romance!" the Soldier spoke; "By sleight of sword we may not win, But scuffle 'mid uncleanly smoke Of arquebus and culverin. Honour is lost, and none may tell Who paid good blows. Romance, farewell!" "Farewell, Romance!" the Traders cried; "Our keels have lain with every sea; The dull-returning wind and tide Heave up the wharf where we would be; The known and noted breezes swell Our trudging sails. Romance, farewell!" "Good-bye, Romance!" the Skipper said; "He vanished with the coal we burn. Our dial marks full-steam ahead, Our speed is timed to half a turn. Sure as the ferried barge we ply 'Twixt port and port. Romance, good-bye!" "Romance!" the season-tickets mourn, "He never ran to catch His train, But passed with coach and guard and horn -- And left the local -- late again!" Confound Romance!"... And all unseen Romance brought up the nine-fifteen. His hand was on the lever laid, His oil-can soothed the worrying cranks, His whistle waked the snowbound grade, His fog-horn cut the reeking Banks; By dock and deep and mine and mill The Boy-god reckless laboured still! Robed, crowned and throned, He wove His spell, Where heart-blood beat or hearth-smoke curled, With unconsidered miracle, Hedged in a backward-gazing world: Then taught His chosen bard to say: "Our King was with us -- yesterday!" -- Rudyard Kipling

Written in 1894 this is so perceptive - the "olden days" were always better
and now indeed we regard steam trains as romantic. All over Great Britain
there are preserved lines that spend the summer running steam specials for
visitors and day trippers who come out just for that whiff of coal dust and
romance.  (Alas fewer and fewer steam specials on the main lines, health and
safety regulations and the generation of engine drivers who qualified to
drive steam engines on the public network by the 1960s and so hold the
relevant certificates are dying out.)

Interesting in this poem is the use of "season ticket" as a term for someone
regularly travelling to work by train - there's a specific word for this
figure of speech which I've forgotten for the moment. ["metonymy" - ed.]
This one did not last, though, and was overtaken by "commuter".

(Similarly, in Kipling's novel "The Light that Failed" I came across the use
of "to Kodak" as a verb meaning to photograph - another English usage that
had a very brief life.)

Tamsin Bacchus

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Pagett, M.P. -- Rudyard Kipling

This week's theme: the summer heat

(Poem #1894) Pagett, M.P. The toad beneath the harrow knows Exactly where each tooth-point goes. The butterfly upon the road Preaches contentment to that toad. Pagett, M.P., was a liar, and a fluent liar therewith -- He spoke of the heat of India as the "Asian Solar Myth"; Came on a four months' visit, to "study the East," in November, And I got him to sign an agreement vowing to stay till September. March came in with the koil. Pagett was cool and gay, Called me a "bloated Brahmin," talked of my "princely pay." March went out with the roses. "Where is your heat?" said he. "Coming," said I to Pagett, "Skittles!" said Pagett, M.P. April began with the punkah, coolies, and prickly-heat, -- Pagett was dear to mosquitoes, sandflies found him a treat. He grew speckled and mumpy -- hammered, I grieve to say, Aryan brothers who fanned him, in an illiberal way. May set in with a dust-storm, -- Pagett went down with the sun. All the delights of the season tickled him one by one. Imprimis -- ten day's "liver" -- due to his drinking beer; Later, a dose of fever -- slight, but he called it severe. Dysent'ry touched him in June, after the Chota Bursat -- Lowered his portly person -- made him yearn to depart. He didn't call me a "Brahmin," or "bloated," or "overpaid," But seemed to think it a wonder that any one stayed. July was a trifle unhealthy, -- Pagett was ill with fear. 'Called it the "Cholera Morbus," hinted that life was dear. He babbled of "Eastern Exile," and mentioned his home with tears; But I haven't seen my children for close upon seven years. We reached a hundred and twenty once in the Court at noon, (I've mentioned Pagett was portly) Pagett, went off in a swoon. That was an end to the business; Pagett, the perjured, fled With a practical, working knowledge of "Solar Myths" in his head. And I laughed as I drove from the station, but the mirth died out on my lips As I thought of the fools like Pagett who write of their "Eastern trips," And the sneers of the traveled idiots who duly misgovern the land, And I prayed to the Lord to deliver another one into my hand. -- Rudyard Kipling

Notes:
 koil (usu. koel): Indian songbird
 punkah: fan
 Chota Bursat: the early rains

Kipling was never one to suffer fools lightly, and his intolerance has taken
the form of numerous highly satisfying poems and caricatures. Today's poem,
the predictable-as-a-train-wreck account of a pompous politician's visit to
a land notably lacking in the comforts of home, is typical - Kipling had a
deep and informed love for India, and was often openly contemptuous of those
who did not measure up to its rigours. (The theme is not uncommon - Robert
Service was later to write even more extreme poems along the same lines,
about the men who did not measure up to his beloved Yukon.)

This is Frontier poetry in the grand tradition, the division lines drawn
clearly between the Men of the Frontier and the effete pen-pushers back home
who would presume to govern them. And what shines through every line of the
poem is an unimstakable ring of authenticity, the pervasive feeling that
Kipling knows what he is talking about, and perhaps even that he has earned
the right to his mockery.

And yes, it really does get that hot over here :)

martin

[Links]

The short story to which the poem is attached:

[broken link] http://whitewolf.newcastle.edu.au/words/authors/K/KiplingRudyard/prose/UndertheDeodars/enlightenmentpagett.html

[Theme]

Thanks again to Bronson Stocker for suggesting this week's theme.
Contributions happily accepted till the theme winds up.

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The Bell Buoy -- Rudyard Kipling

Guest poem submitted by Benjamin A. Okopnik :

(Poem #1817) The Bell Buoy They christened my brother of old -- And a saintly name he bears -- They gave him his place to hold At the head of the belfry-stairs, Where the minister-towers stand And the breeding kestrels cry. Would I change with my brother a league inland? (Shoal! 'Ware shoal!) Not I! In the flush of the hot June prime, O'er sleek flood-tides afire, I hear him hurry the chime To the bidding of checked Desire; Till the sweated ringers tire And the wild bob-majors die. Could I wait for my turn in the godly choir? (Shoal! 'Ware shoal!) Not I! When the smoking scud is blown -- When the greasy wind-rack lowers -- Apart and at peace and alone, He counts the changeless hours. He wars with darkling Powers (I war with a darkling sea); Would he stoop to my work in the gusty mirk? (Shoal! 'Ware shoal!) Not he! There was never a priest to pray There was never a hand to toll, When they made me guard of the bay And moored me over the shoal. I rock, I reel, and I roll -- My four great hammers ply -- Could I speak or be still at the Church's will? (Shoal! 'Ware shoal!) Not I! The landward marks have failed, The fog-bank glides unguessed, The seaward lights are veiled, The spent deep feigns her rest: But my ear is laid to her breast, I lift to the swell -- I cry! Could I wait in sloth on the Church's oath? (Shoal! 'Ware shoal!) Not I! At the careless end of night I thrill to the nearing screw; I turn in the clearing light And I call to the drowsy crew; And the mud boils foul and blue As the blind bow backs away. Will they give me their thanks if they clear the banks? (Shoal! 'Ware shoal!) Not they! The beach-pools cake and skim, The bursting spray-heads freeze, I gather on crown and rim The grey, grained ice of the seas, Where, sheathed from bitt to trees, The plunging colliers lie. Would I barter my place for the Church's grace? (Shoal ! 'Ware shoal !) Not I! Through the blur of the whirling snow, Or the black of the inky sleet, The lanterns gather and grow, And I look for the homeward fleet. Rattle of block and sheet -- "Ready about - stand by!" Shall I ask them a fee ere they fetch the quay? (Shoal! 'Ware shoal!) Not I! I dip and I surge and I swing In the rip of the racing tide, By the gates of doom I sing, On the horns of death I ride. A ship-length overside, Between the course and the sand, Fretted and bound I bide Peril whereof I cry. Would I change with my brother a league inland? (Shoal! 'Ware shoal!) Not I! -- Rudyard Kipling

        1896.

As a seaman and a live-aboard sailor of many years, I find that much of
Kipling's poetry feels like home to me. There are many popular poets and
writers who have scribbled a muckle of lines extolling the virtues of the
"romantic" Ocean, but whose work makes me frown and mutter "stick with what
you know, would you?". In contrast, Kipling's poetry of the sea stands
unassailable in its "saltiness", its power, its clarity of expression, and
most of all, in the meaning of what is real and true in the heart of those
who "go down to the sea in ships".

As I sit here aboard S/V "Ulysses", my dog-eared volume of his "Complete
Verse: Definitive Edition" reposes comfortably on my bookshelf; it has been
with me through several ships and through many years. The virtues of
seamanship, which I've taught along with the practice of it to a number of
people over the years, have often been phrased as quotes from this very
book, or even entire passages to illustrate the point:

``
 "Let Zeus adjudge your landward kin whose votive meal and sale
 At easy-cheated altars win oblivion for the fault,
 But you the unhoodwinked wave shall test -- the immediate gulf condemn --
 Except ye owe the Fates a jest, be slow to jest with them.

 Ye shall not clear by Greekly speech, nor cozen from your path
 The twinkling shoal, the leeward beach, or Hadria's white-lipped wrath;
 Nor tempt with painted cloth for wood my fraud-avenging hosts;
 Nor make at all, or all make good, your bulwarks and your boasts.

        -- from "Poseidon's Law"
''

Unlike Joseph Conrad or Richard Henry Dana, Kipling was never a professional
seaman, but his writing shows that he truly understood the very heart of
seamanship. Whatever his other faults, his poetry of the sea is sublime.

Rudyard Kipling's Biography:
  http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Rudyard_Kipling

Ben Okopnik.

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Quiquern (Chapter Heading) -- Rudyard Kipling

(Poem #1685) Quiquern (Chapter Heading) The People of the Eastern Ice, they are melting like the snow -- They beg for coffee and sugar; they go where the white men go. The People of the Western Ice, they learn to steal and fight; They sell their furs to the trading-post; they sell their souls to the white. The People of the Southern Ice, they trade with the whaler's crew; Their women have many ribbons, but their tents are torn and few. But the People of the Elder Ice, beyond the white man's ken -- Their spears are made of the narwhal-horn, and they are the last of the Men! -- Rudyard Kipling

Note: From the Second Jungle Book

Kipling's Jungle Books are famous, and deservedly so. Stories of Mowgli and
his friends have enthralled generations of children, and are usually what
people think of when they think of the books - but Kipling also included
several other stories in the two books, at least one of which (Rikki Tikki
Tavi) has achieved a fame rivalling the "main" stories, and several others
of which foreshadowed later masterpieces like "Puck of Pook's Hill" and
"Kim".

When rereading the books, one of the things that always stands out is the
sheer brilliance of the chapter headings. They work very well as stand-alone
poems (indeed, we've run several here on Minstrels), but to truly appreciate
Kipling's work, I'd strongly advise putting aside a couple of evenings and
reading the Jungle Books through at a stretch - the interplay of story and
verse is wonderfully immersive. (That said, I'll admit that Quiquern was one
of the rare instances where the poem was a lot more memorable than the
story.)

Incidentally, has anyone else done something similar, by way of chapter
headings? Several authors have embedded verse within their stories (Tolkien
is a notable example, as is Carroll), but right now I can't think of anyone
who's done it in quite the way Kipling has.

martin

Links:

The Jungle Books are freely available online; here's today's story:
  http://www.classicreader.com/read.php/sid.3/bookid.2742/sec.11/

All the chapter heading verses:
  http://www.poetryloverspage.com/poets/kipling/jungle_books.html

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The Explorer -- Rudyard Kipling

(Poem #1586) The Explorer "There's no sense in going further -- it's the edge of cultivation," So they said, and I believed it -- broke my land and sowed my crop -- Built my barns and strung my fences in the little border station Tucked away below the foothills where the trails run out and stop: Till a voice, as bad as Conscience, rang interminable changes On one everlasting Whisper day and night repeated -- so: "Something hidden. Go and find it. Go and look behind the Ranges -- "Something lost behind the Ranges. Lost and wating for you. Go!" So I went, worn out of patience; never told my nearest neighbours -- Stole away with pack and ponies -- left 'em drinking in the town; And the faith that moveth mountains didn't seem to help my labours As I faced the sheer main-ranges, whipping up and leading down. March by march I puzzled through 'em, turning flanks and dodging shoulders, Hurried on in hope of water, headed back for lack of grass; Till I camped above the tree-line -- drifted snow and naked boulders -- Felt free air astir to windward -- knew I'd stumbled on the Pass. 'Thought to name it for the finder: but that night the Norther found me -- Froze and killed the plains-bred ponies; so I called the camp Despair (It's the Railway Gap to-day, though). Then my Whisper waked to hound me: -- "Something lost behind the Ranges. Over yonder! Go you there!" Then I knew, the while I doubted -- knew His Hand was certain o'er me. Still -- it might be self-delusion -- scores of better men had died -- I could reach the township living, but.... He knows what terror tore me... But I didn't... but I didn't. I went down the other side. Till the snow ran out in flowers, and the flowers turned to aloes, And the aloes sprung to thickets and a brimming stream ran by; But the thickets dwined to thorn-scrub, and the water drained to shallows, And I dropped again on desert -- blasted earth, and blasting sky.... I remember lighting fires; I remember sitting by 'em; I remember seeing faces, hearing voices, through the smoke; I remember they were fancy -- for I threw a stone to try 'em. "Something lost behind the Ranges" was the only word they spoke. I remember going crazy. I remember that I knew it When I heard myself hallooing to the funny folk I saw. 'Very full of dreams that desert, but my two legs took me through it... And I used to watch 'em moving with the toes all black and raw. But at last the country altered -- White Man's country past disputing -- Rolling grass and open timber, with a hint of hills behind -- There I found me food and water, and I lay a week recruiting. Got my strength and lost my nightmares. Then I entered on my find. Thence I ran my first rough survey -- chose my trees and blazed and ringed 'em -- Week by week I pried and sampled -- week by week my findings grew. Saul he went to look for donkeys, and by God he found a kingdom! But by God, who sent His Whisper, I had struck the worth of two! Up along the hostile mountains, where the hair-poised snowslide shivers -- Down and through the big fat marshes that the virgin ore-bed stains, Till I heard the mile-wide mutterings of unimagined rivers, And beyond the nameless timber saw illimitable plains! 'Plotted sites of future cities, traced the easy grades between 'em; Watched unharnessed rapids wasting fifty thousand head an hour; Counted leagues of water-frontage through the axe-ripe woods that screen 'em -- Saw the plant to feed a people -- up and waiting for the power! Well, I know who'll take the credit -- all the clever chaps that followed -- Came, a dozen men together -- never knew my desert-fears; Tracked me by the camps I'd quitted, used the water-holes I hollowed. They'll go back and do the talking. They'll be called the Pioneers! They will find my sites of townships -- not the cities that I set there. They will rediscover rivers -- not my rivers heard at night. By my own old marks and bearings they will show me how to get there, By the lonely cairns I builded they will guide my feet aright. Have I named one single river? Have I claimed one single acre? Have I kept one single nugget -- (barring samples)? No, not I! Because my price was paid me ten times over by my Maker. But you wouldn't understand it. You go up and occupy. Ores you'll find there; wood and cattle; water-transit sure and steady (That should keep the railway rates down), coal and iron at your doors. God took care to hide that country till He judged His people ready, Then He chose me for His Whisper, and I've found it, and it's yours! Yes, your "Never-never country" -- yes, your "edge of cultivation" And "no sense in going further" -- till I crossed the range to see. God forgive me! No, I didn't. It's God's present to our nation. Anybody might have found it, but -- His Whisper came to Me! -- Rudyard Kipling

I can never read this poem without feeling an answering thrill in my heart,
without the hairs on my arms rising in response and a shiver running down my
spine. This is Kipling at his best, and his best - as I keep on
rediscovering - is very, very good indeed. And while today's poem is perhaps
not one of his "famous" ones, while it may never attain the prominence of
"Tommy" or "East and West", its subject is clearly one that was dear to
Kipling's heart, that he returned to again and again in poetry and prose.

And it is that passion that sparkles through the poem, that infuses it with
all the romance of exploration - "Something lost behind the Ranges. Lost
and wating for you. Go!" - and the relentless purity of the drive:

   Have I named one single river? Have I claimed one single acre?
     Have I kept one single nugget -- (barring samples)? No, not I!
   Because my price was paid me ten times over by my Maker.
     But you wouldn't understand it. You go up and occupy.

Most of Kipling's best work is set in the turbulent borderland between
civilisation and wilderness; today's poem definitely deserves a place in
that number.

martin

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