Fingle's Poetry Page
(Not mine! The Muse speaks otherwise to me.)
Oh, Jezebel,
Oh, Jezabel
The Disciple
The Land
By Robert E. Howard
Oh, Jezebel, oh, Jezebel,
They hurled you from the wall,
And all the priests and prudes of Israel
Gave thanks to see you fall.
But I could laugh with Jezebel,
And kiss her on the lips,
And strip the scarf from off her breasts,
The girdle from her hips.
For I forswear Elijah,
Forget that Adam fell,
To press the waist of Lilith
And laugh with Jezebel.
THE DISCIPLE
("The Church that was at Antioch")
By Rudyard Kipling
He that hath a Gospel
To loose upon Mankind,
Though he serve it utterly--
Body, soul, and mind--
Though he go to Calvary
Daily for its gain--
It is His Disciple
Shall make the labour vain...
He that hath a Gospel
For all earth to own--
Though he etch it on the steel,
Or carve it on the stone--
Not to be misdoubted
Through the after-days--
It is His Disciple
Shall read it many ways.
It is His Disciple
(Ere Those Bones are dust)
Who shall change the Charter,
Who shall split the Trust.
Amplify distinctions,
Rationalise the Claim;
Preaching that the Master
Would have done the same.
It is His Disciple
Who shall tell us how
Much the Master would have scrapped
Had he lived till now--
What he would have modified
Of what he said before.
It is His Disciple
Shall do this and more...
He that hath a Gospel
Whereby Heaven is won
(Carpenter, or cameleer,
Or Maya's dreaming son),
Many swords shall pierce him,
Mingling blood with gall;
But His Own Disciple
Shall wound Him worst of all!
From _The Definitive Edition of Rudyard Kipling's Verse_;
Hodder & Stoughton, May 1966 printing
Copyright the National Trust for Historic Preservation, London,
England.
This is a late Kipling, as it is listed as part of the verse from
_Limits And Renewals_, dated 1932; he died in 1936. (It's also
the only one we had to pay a royalty on when we recorded Leslie
Fish's _Our Fathers Of Old_.)
My deep thanks to Mary the Filker
THE LAND
By Rudyard Kipling
When Julius Fabricius, Sub-Prefect of the Weald
In the days of Diocletian owned our Lower River field
He called to him Hobdenius, a Briton of the Clay,
Saying "What about that River-piece for laying into
hay?"
And the aged Hobden answered: "I remember as a lad
My father told your father that she wanted dreenin' bad.
An' the more that you neglect her the less you'll get her clean
Have it jest as you've a mind to, but, if I was you, I'd dreen.'
So they drained it long and crossways in the lavish Roman style-
Still we find among the river-drift their flakes of ancient tile,
And in drouthy middle August, when the bones of meadows show,
We can trace the lines they followed sixteen hundred years ago.
Then Julius Fabricius died as even Prefects do,
And after certain centuries, Imperial Rome died too.
Then did robbers enter Britain from across the Northern main
And our Lower River-field was won by Ogier the Dane.
Well could Ogier work his war-boat-well could Ogier wield his
brand
Much he knew of foaming waters-not so much of farming land.
So he called to him a Hobden of the old unaltered blood,
Saying: "What about that River-piece; she doesn't look no
good?"
And the aged Hobden answered: ... Tain't for me to interfere,
But I've know that bit o' meadow now for five and fifty year.
Have it jest as you've a mind to, but I've proved it time on time
If you want to change her nature you have got to give her
lime"
Ogier sent his wains to Lewes, twenty hours' solemn walk,
And drew back great abundance of the cool, grey, healing chalk.
And old Hobden spread it broadest, never heeding what was in 't.
Which is why in cleaning ditches, now and then we find a flint.
Ogier died. His sons grew English-Anglo-Saxon was their name
Till out of blossomed Normandy another pirate came;
For Duke William conquered England and divided with his men,
And our lower River-field he gave to William of Warenne.
But the Brook (you know her habit) rose one rainy autumn night
And tore down sodden flitches of the bank to left and right.
So, said William to his Bailiff as they rode their dripping
rounds:
"Hob, what about that River-bit-the Brook's got up no
bounds?"
And that aged Hobden answered: ... Tain't my business to advise,
But ye might ha' known 'twould happen from the way the valley
lies
Where ye can't hold back the water you must try and save the
sile.
Hev it jest as you've a mind to, but it I was you, I'd spile.
They spiled along the water-course with trunks of willow-trees,
And planks of elms behind 'em and immortal oaken knees.
And when the spates of Autumn whirl the gravel-beds away
You can see their faithful fragments, iron-hard in iron clay.
Georgii Quinti Anno Sexto, I, who own the River-field,
Am fortified with title-deeds, attested, signed and sealed,
Guaranteeing me, my assigns, my executors and heirs
All sorts of powers and profits which-are neither mine nor
theirs.
I have rights of chase and warren, as my dignity requires.
I can fish-but Hobden tickles. I can shoot-but Hobden wires.
I repair, but he reopens, certain gaps which, men allege,
Have been used by every Hobden since a Hobden swapped a hedge.
Shall I dog his morning progress o'er the track-betraying dew?
Demand his dinner-basket into which my pheasant flew?
Confiscate his evening faggot under which my conies ran,
And summons him to judgment? I would sooner summons Pan.
His dead are in the churchyard-thirty generations laid.
Their names were old in history when Domesday Book was made;
And the passion and the piety and prowess of his line
Have seeded, rooted, fruited in some land the Law calls mine.
Not for any beast that burrows, not for any bird that flies,
Would I lose his large sound counsel, miss his keen amending
eyes.
He is bailiff, woodman, wheelwright, field-surveyor, engineer,
And if flagrantly a poacher-'tain't for me to interfere.
"Hob, what about the River-bit?" I turn to him again,
With Fabricius and Ogier and William of Warenne.
"Hev it jest as you've a mind to, but"-and here he
takes command.
For whoever pays the taxes old Mus' Hobden owns the land.