To Kipling

Strange you are remembered mostly, if at all,
for half-a-dozen verses long grown stale,
Like “Recessional” and “If—”. Copy-book maxims
our grand-parents cared for, or a half-remembered tale

of “Kim”, on telemovie classics, starring Errol Flynn,
When an hour’s reading of an anthology would show
a thousand scenes: the rout at Maiwand,
Pepys’s life, ship’s stamping engines, or the slow

Grind of men’s duty done with little thanks,
Or sailors begging God on Judgment Day
To let them keep the sea. Though some of it repels
It still remains impossible to say

That this was a small vision. “Great verse,” Eliot said.
“Cheap picturesqueness,” said Orwell. But why cheap?
You did what you set out to do. At best
You scaled great heights, with words that leap

And flash like beasts on lofty crags,
And never holding back with praise or blame.
Who saw so much of how things worked,
Who blew a brilliant bubble, or sank a man in shame.

Your daemon gave with open hands,
You made the most of living in your age
And so went on, to effortlessly outlive
The petty scribblers sunk in jealous rage.

What did your work amount to?
Well, you took on the great beast
Of human boredom. As did Homer, if you like,
You showed the colours of the world, at least

Bright as a Churchill painting, a brass band
Yet also in the flash and bang a high
And yearning note that reaches like some lone
White bird across a dark and lowering sky.

Let my heirs’ hearts quicken at the word “Mandalay”,
Let them read your Pepys’s obituary, and say “’Tis I,”
Steer the red war-boat through the reeling waves
And feel the broadness of the Earth and sky.

As you wished, I’ll not question you. Let you be
Still an enigma, yet a great one. Who else could write
“Hymn of the breaking strain”, or celebrate Brown Bess?
Or take the Tramp Royal’s road before the night?

When all is done, and there comes suddenly
A surfeit of it all, and one casts your books aside
One knows the magic will return
Bright as a tropic butterfly, mysterious as the tide.