In America, too, there is a place for poetry in public life that goes beyond our own laureate in prominence. Half my Bengali in-laws are bankers, lawyers or university professors, but also write poetry, either for their own private pleasure, or for publication, and see nothing so very remarkable in it.Įlsewhere, the Tunisian opposition leader Chokri Belaid, assassinated this week, was a well-respected poet. There is a saying about Bengalis: “One Bengali, a poet: two Bengalis, a film society: three Bengalis, a political party.” That is certainly true from my experience. This is not the case in many foreign cultures. The separation between ordinary people, and even many of the professional classes, and poetry must be regretted. This is a shame, because, in fact, poetry these days is often entertaining and accessible. If a politician or a serving officer, these days, wrote a poem, as they are quite likely to, it would be truly astonishing to see them writing in the style of George Szirtes. One amateur bard writes: “I smile when you hold me./And as you kiss my virgin lips,/My heart, it seems to flutter./And when you hold my hand so terribly shaky are my hips.” Poetry, as a professional endeavour, seems to have grown remote from what people want to achieve with it. There are many charming personal poems preserved on the internet, written for people’s boyfriends: certainly cherished by the recipients, but not ones that have needed much influence from poetry written in the past 100 years. What would be very unusual would be to write a poem in the style a famous poet was using two or three years ago, as Churchill did. In fact, people reach, more than ever, for poetry at elevated moments of their lives, and it is not uncommon for them to write heartfelt rhymes to read out at memorial services or even weddings. Trying to think of an equivalent today is challenging. It’s interesting to see a military and political figure not only writing poetry, but writing poetry in a vein influenced by very current poetic style. Written in 1899 or 1900, it shows the strong influence of Kipling’s famous “Recessional” of 1897, but has some distinct touches of its own: “The silence of a mighty fleet/Portends the tumult yet to be./The tables of the evening meal/Are spread amid the great machines.” The poem just unearthed, entitled “Our Modern Watchwords”, is a little more substantial. Still, surprisingly, there are not many known poems by him – there is one entitled “Influenza” from his schooldays and a few impromptu back-of-a-postcard compositions: “Only one thing lacks these banks of green-/The Pussy Cat who is their Queen.” Winston Churchill was a talented and able writer with a notable relish for words. If that sounds unusual, it’s probably because it wasn’t by a poet, and wasn’t by anyone alive. When this war is over I shall confine myself entirely to writing and painting.A poem was published for the first time this week, and had wide, curious coverage.
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