I am sneaking in under the wire of Poetry Friday to post a poem that I was reminded how much I like at Kindling Words yesterday.
The More Loving One by W. H. Auden
Looking up at the stars, I know quite well
That, for all they care, I can go to hell,
But on earth indifference is the least
We have to dread from man or beast.
How should we like it were stars to burn
With a passion for us we could not return?
If equal affection cannot be,
Let the more loving one be me.
Admirer as I think I am
Of stars that do not give a damn,
I cannot, now I see them, say
I missed one terribly all day.
Were all stars to disappear or die,
I should learn to look at an empty sky
And feel its total dark sublime,
Though this might take me a little time.
Tags: The More Loving One, WH Auden
Here’s more Auden, which I dedicated to one of my authors (changing “Ireland” for “Hollywood” so it fit perfectly):You were silly like us; your gift survived it all:The parish of rich women, physical decay,Yourself. Mad Hollywood hurt you into poetry.Now Hollywood has her madness and her weather still,For poetry makes nothing happen: it survivesIn the valley of its making where executivesWould never want to tamper, flows on southFrom ranches of isolation and the busy griefs,Raw towns that we believe and die in; it survives,A way of happening, a mouth.