About Auden’s Juvenilia
He knew he would be great
And told his tutor so
But lots of second-rate
Ramshackle lines ‘to go’
Like pizzas on a plate
He ordered up: we know
His Hardy phase, his Yeats.
But as we sort out from
The country metaphors
(That almanac birdsong,
Those Edward Thomas spores)
The few bits which belong
To his mature scores,
We smell death on the Somme.
He didn’t write of war
But just like Isherwood
Saw straight sex as the flaw
Which cost a decade’s blood –
His poems should restore
A world before the flood,
The cooked renew the raw.
Watch This Space
In galaxy M87
matter is disappearing endlessly
at unimaginable velocity
producing a density which
on earth would shrink the planet
to the size of one small marble.
All the mind can do
to speculate on this
is guess that far beyond
but still within itself
a matching universe is set
to disappear by rote.
Since space is unconfined
a lesser Science rules
whatever’s mensural,
and gods come out like stars,
unknown but understood,
to mask infinity.
Send Letters To:
The Editor
London Review of Books,
28 Little Russell Street
London, WC1A 2HN
letters@lrb.co.uk
Please include name, address, and a telephone number.