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nigelswift 8112 posts |
Edited Oct 09, 2006, 10:46
May 11, 2005, 12:35
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In the Neolithic Age - Kipling IN THE Neolithic Age savage warfare did I wage For food and fame and woolly horses' pelt; I was singer to my clan in that dim, red Dawn of Man, And I sang of all we fought and feared and felt. Yea, I sang as now I sing, when the Prehistoric spring Made the piled Biscayan ice-pack split and shove; And the troll and gnome and dwerg, and the Gods of Cliff and Berg Were about me and beneath me and above. But a rival, of Solutré, told the tribe my style was outré— 'Neath a tomahawk of diorite he fell. And I left my views on Art, barbed and tanged, below the heart Of a mammothistic etcher at Grenelle. Then I stripped them, scalp from skull, and my hunting dogs fed full, And their teeth I threaded neatly on a thong; And I wiped my mouth and said, "It is well that they are dead, For I know my work is right and theirs was wrong." But my Totem saw the shame; from his ridgepole shrine he came, And he told me in a vision of the night:— "There are nine and sixty ways of constructing tribal lays, And every single one of them is right!" . . . . . Then the silence closed upon me till They put new clothing on me Of whiter, weaker flesh and bone more frail; And I stepped beneath Time's finger, once again a tribal singer And a minor poet certified by Traill. Still they skirmish to and fro, men my messmates on the snow, When we headed off the aurochs turn for turn; When the rich Allobrogenses never kept amanuenses, And our only plots were piled in lakes at Berne. Still a cultured Christian age sees us scuffle, squeak, and rage, Still we pinch and slap and jabber, scratch and dirk; Still we let our business slide—as we dropped the half-dressed hide— To show a fellow-savage how to work. Still the world is wondrous large,—seven seas from marge to marge,— And it holds a vast of various kinds of man; And the wildest dreams of Kew are the facts of Khatmandhu, And the crimes of Clapham chaste in Martaban. Here's my wisdom for your use, as I learned it when the moose And the reindeer roared where Paris roars to-night:— There are nine and sixty ways of constructing tribal lays, And—every—single—one—of—them—is—right!
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Littlestone 5386 posts |
May 11, 2005, 12:38
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Yes, I've heard of that one but haven't tracked it down yet. There's another Kipling above at http://www.themodernantiquarian.com/forum/?thread=23046&message=263556
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Wiggy 1696 posts |
May 11, 2005, 12:39
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Nice one Nigel. My remembered interpretation was wrong I think.
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Littlestone 5386 posts |
May 11, 2005, 12:51
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Thanks for posting that Nigel.
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PeterH 1180 posts |
Edited Oct 09, 2006, 10:46
May 11, 2005, 22:56
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I love Kipling! Simple and uncomplicated, but he knew his stuff. He wasn't keen on the Romans either. from The River's Tale (The Thames) "But I'd have you know that these waters of mine Were once a branch of the River Rhine, When hundreds of miles to the East I went And England was joined to the Continent. I remember the bat-wing lizard birds, The Age of Ice and the mammoth herds, And the giant tigers that stalked them down Through Regent's Park into Camden Town. And I remember like yesterday The earliest Cockney who came my way, When he pushed through the forest that lined the Strand, With paint on his face and a club in his hand. He was death to feather and fin and fur. He trapped my beavers at Westminster. He netted my salmon, he hunted my deer, He killed my heron off Lambeth Pier. He fought his neighbour with axes and swords, Flint or bronze, at my upper fords, While down at Greenwich, for slaves and tin, The tall Phoenician ships stole in, And North Sea war-boats, painted and gay, Flashed like dragonflies, Erith way; And Norseman and Negro and Gaul and Greek, Drank with the Britons in Barking Creek, And life was gay, and the world was new, And I was a mile across at Kew! But the Romans came with a heavy hand, And bridged and roaded and ruled the land, And the Romans left and the Danes blew in- And that's where your history-books begin."
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Littlestone 5386 posts |
May 11, 2005, 23:23
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Wonderful! It reminds me of the statue of Boudicca and her daughters on Westminster Bridge - the plinth and its dedication to that great queen now obscured by kiss-me-quick merchants' stalls selling (not-so-cheap) T-shirts and postcards...
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Littlestone 5386 posts |
Edited Oct 09, 2006, 10:46
May 12, 2005, 16:54
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Also slightly reminiscent of Kipling's The River's Tale is the following - inspired I believe by the sarsens in the Grey Wethers' Valley just outside Avebury on Fyfield Down... Valley of Dreams Quietly now lies our Valley of Dreams summer's dew so quickly turned to frost. Sprinkled white on every sleeping stone and blade of grass. So still but for the silent fall of winter from each dark tree and hawthorn hedge. Was it really here on some bright summer's day that you and I gave this place a thousand names? And walked And laughed and held each other a little while? Sleep on secret stones. Dream your dreams of burning suns summer blown trees and parakeets. Dream then of that silent creeping darkness. Those unending winters of screeching ice pushing inch by inch your frozen bodies across frozen hills. To this warm secret little Valley of Dreams. Dream of a time long gone when they came to haul you back again inch by inch to some proud new place in the sun. Was it really here that you and I walked and laughed and gave this place a thousand names? Where I held you a little while and wanted to say how much I loved you? Such a tiny sentiment. Such a silent drop of time in this Valley of Such Antiquity in this Valley of Frozen Dreams. Anon
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nigelswift 8112 posts |
May 12, 2005, 17:13
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That's a stunner.
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PeterH 1180 posts |
Edited Oct 09, 2006, 10:47
May 12, 2005, 17:22
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Excellent! You must have a lot by now - what are you going to do with them? Great Kipling verse is the one about the Palaeolithic cave painter who is a misunderstood artist at first, but then is shown the value of market forces. "Story of Ung" - too long for me to type out though - sorry! just a short extract: "Later he pictured an aurochs - later he pictured a bear Pictured the sabre-tooth tiger dragging a man to his lair Pictured the mountainous mammoth, hairy abhorrent, alone Out of the love that he bore them, scribing them clearly on bone. Swift came the tribe to behold them, peering and pushing and still Men of the berg-battered beaches, men of the boulder-hatched hill Hunters and fishers and trappers, presently whispering low: "Yea, they are like - and it may be. But how does the Picture-man know?"
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Littlestone 5386 posts |
May 12, 2005, 18:50
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Well, the poems keep coming in Peter, from the most unexpected places and from across the years. I thought I'd give it a year or two and then, along with any other interested parties, perhaps publish a little anthology of <b>Megalithic Poems</b>. I'm not in it to make money but if any money was generated from such a publication I think it should go towards a worthy megalithic cause. So, if anyone knows of any other poems, or if you have poems of your own, please post them here or mail them to me privately.
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