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Collected Poems of Rudyard Kipling
Introduction and Notes by R.T. Jones, Honorary Fellow of the University of York. This edition of the poetry of Rudyard Kipling (1865-1936) includes all the poems contained in the Definitive Edition of 1940. In his lifetime, Kipling was widely regarded as the unofficial Poet Laureate, and he was awarded the Nobel Prize for Literature in 1907. His poetry is striking for its many rhythms and popular forms of speech, and Kipling was equally at home with dramatic monologues and extended ballads. He is often thought of as glorifying war, militarism, and the British Empire, but an attentive reading of the poems does not confirm that view. This edition reprints George Orwell's hard-hitting account of Kipling's poems, first published in 1942, and generally regarded as one of the most important contributions to critical discussion of Kipling.
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First published January 1, 1940
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About the author
Rudyard Kipling
6,985 books3,625 followersJoseph Rudyard Kipling was a journalist, short-story writer, poet, and novelist.
Kipling's works of fiction include The Jungle Book (1894), Kim (1901), and many short stories, including The Man Who Would Be King (1888). His poems include Mandalay (1890), Gunga Din (1890), The Gods of the Copybook Headings (1919), The White Man's Burden (1899), and If— (1910). He is regarded as a major innovator in the art of the short story; his children's books are classics of children's literature; and one critic described his work as exhibiting "a versatile and luminous narrative gift".
Kipling was one of the most popular writers in the United Kingdom, in both prose and verse, in the late 19th and early 20th centuries. Henry James said: "Kipling strikes me personally as the most complete man of genius (as distinct from fine intelligence) that I have ever known." In 1907, at the age of 41, he was awarded the Nobel Prize in Literature, making him the first English-language writer to receive the prize, and its youngest recipient to date. He was also sounded out for the British Poet Laureateship and on several occasions for a knighthood, both of which he declined.
Awarded the Nobel Prize in Literature in 1907 "in consideration of the power of observation, originality of imagination, virility of ideas and remarkable talent for narration which characterize the creations of this world-famous author."
Kipling kept writing until the early 1930s, but at a slower pace and with much less success than before. On the night of 12 January 1936, Kipling suffered a haemorrhage in his small intestine. He underwent surgery, but died less than a week later on 18 January 1936 at the age of 70 of a perforated duodenal ulcer. Kipling's death had in fact previously been incorrectly announced in a magazine, to which he wrote, "I've just read that I am dead. Don't forget to delete me from your list of subscribers."
Kipling's works of fiction include The Jungle Book (1894), Kim (1901), and many short stories, including The Man Who Would Be King (1888). His poems include Mandalay (1890), Gunga Din (1890), The Gods of the Copybook Headings (1919), The White Man's Burden (1899), and If— (1910). He is regarded as a major innovator in the art of the short story; his children's books are classics of children's literature; and one critic described his work as exhibiting "a versatile and luminous narrative gift".
Kipling was one of the most popular writers in the United Kingdom, in both prose and verse, in the late 19th and early 20th centuries. Henry James said: "Kipling strikes me personally as the most complete man of genius (as distinct from fine intelligence) that I have ever known." In 1907, at the age of 41, he was awarded the Nobel Prize in Literature, making him the first English-language writer to receive the prize, and its youngest recipient to date. He was also sounded out for the British Poet Laureateship and on several occasions for a knighthood, both of which he declined.
Awarded the Nobel Prize in Literature in 1907 "in consideration of the power of observation, originality of imagination, virility of ideas and remarkable talent for narration which characterize the creations of this world-famous author."
Kipling kept writing until the early 1930s, but at a slower pace and with much less success than before. On the night of 12 January 1936, Kipling suffered a haemorrhage in his small intestine. He underwent surgery, but died less than a week later on 18 January 1936 at the age of 70 of a perforated duodenal ulcer. Kipling's death had in fact previously been incorrectly announced in a magazine, to which he wrote, "I've just read that I am dead. Don't forget to delete me from your list of subscribers."
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Displaying 1 - 19 of 19 reviews
September 13, 2017
Reading Kipling’s poetry is like stepping into different worlds with each page you turn.
His incredible talent for giving different characters their specific voices and peculiarities is probably most celebrated in his prose. From the Jungle Books over the Just So Stories to Kim, we find a panorama of colourful personalities, all with their own looks, customs, vocabulary, accents and intonations - even if they happen to be animals.
In his poetry, the same rule applies, but in most cases one poem represents one voice, immediately counterbalanced by another one in the next poem. Together (my collection is a brick of 850 pages), they represent a split, divided soul, clearly seeing the multiple struggles of the world, but captive in a mindset carefully molded in praise of an British Empire that would not crumble in Kipling’s head until he had willingly, yet blindly sacrificed his beloved son in the “Great War”.
One such pair of opposites is his well-known poem “If”, representing the ideal young man of the British Empire, according to Kipling’s imagination, and “My Boy Jack”, written after his son was reported missing in the trenches, a trauma from which Kipling never recovered, and which has been dramatised by Haig, in his play My Boy Jack. The heroic ideal came back to haunt Kipling, after he tried to force his son to live up to it.
Kipling had upper class honour in mind when he used his influence to have his son enlisted, and yet, he was not blind to the reality of a soldier’s life in the shadows of a society of hypocritical snobbery, eloquently expressed in an adequate Cockney accent in “Tommy”:
"I went into a theatre as sober as could be,
They gave a drunk civilian room, but 'adn't none for me;
They sent me to the gallery or round the music-'alls,
But when it comes to fightin', Lord! they'll shove me in the stalls!
For it's Tommy this, an' Tommy that, an' "Tommy, wait outside";
But it's "Special train for Atkins" when the trooper's on the tide,
The troopship's on the tide, my boys, the troopship's on the tide,
O it's "Special train for Atkins" when the trooper's on the tide."
Kipling’s reputation has suffered from the fact that many of his poems are being judged elitist, racist, and misogynistic. He is presenting a case for “the White Man’s Burden” as an apologetic approach to colonialism and (British) superiority, and complaining of “The Female of the Species”, more deadly than the male (and why not mention the humorous poem “The Betrothed” in this context as well, in which the main character has to choose between his fiancée and cigars, with the famous, telling conclusion: “And a woman is only a woman, but a good Cigar is a Smoke”).
All of that can be found in his poems, deeply coloured by the time of which he was a typical representative. Yet, his diverse poems show sensitivity and open curiosity to understand the whole spectrum of humanity as well. He was a child of his time, but not blind or narrow-minded.
Analysing the impact of experience abroad in life, he wrote a beautiful poem set in England during Roman times. A centurion who served there for forty years assimilated with the British population and loved his life away from dominant and presumably superior culture in Rome. The centurion does not want to go back to the celebrated civilisation when his time in Britannia is up. The content can of course easily be transported to Kipling’s times, when Englishmen used to India might have chosen not to return to London after decades in the Indian sun:
"Legate, I come to you in tears—My cohort ordered home!
I’ve served in Britain forty years. What should I do in Rome?
Here is my heart, my soul, my mind—the only life I know.
I cannot leave it all behind. Command me not to go!"
Historical characters, contemporary soldiers, the animals of the jungle, they all have their say in Kipling’s universe. Even machines talk and make a case for their right to be taken seriously:
“We can pull and haul and push and lift and drive,
We can print and plough and weave and heat and light,
We can run and race and swim and fly and dive,
We can see and hear and count and read and write!”
When Kipling was awarded the Nobel Prize in 1907, it was "in consideration of the power of observation, originality of imagination, virility of ideas and remarkable talent for narration which characterize the creations of this world-famous author".
His poems are as great a testimony to that originality of imagination as his prose!
Highly readable as well: the nuanced, thoughtful introduction to this edition by George Orwell, making no excuses for the dated, condescending imperialist worldview, but looking beyond it to see Kipling as a writer and child of his time, not a demon or partisan of a political order.
The Glories, 1925
"IN FAITHS and Food and Books and Friends
Give every soul her choice.
For such as follow divers ends
In divers lights rejoice.
There is a glory of the Sun
('Pity it passeth soon!)
But those whose work is nearer done
Look, rather, towards the Moon.
There is a glory of the Moon
When the hot hours have run;
But such as have not touched their noon
Give worship to the Sun.
There is a glory of the Stars,
Perfect on stilly ways;
But such as follow present wars
Pursue the Comet's blaze.
There is a glory in all things;
But each must find his own,
Sufficient for his reckonings,
Which is to him alone."
His incredible talent for giving different characters their specific voices and peculiarities is probably most celebrated in his prose. From the Jungle Books over the Just So Stories to Kim, we find a panorama of colourful personalities, all with their own looks, customs, vocabulary, accents and intonations - even if they happen to be animals.
In his poetry, the same rule applies, but in most cases one poem represents one voice, immediately counterbalanced by another one in the next poem. Together (my collection is a brick of 850 pages), they represent a split, divided soul, clearly seeing the multiple struggles of the world, but captive in a mindset carefully molded in praise of an British Empire that would not crumble in Kipling’s head until he had willingly, yet blindly sacrificed his beloved son in the “Great War”.
One such pair of opposites is his well-known poem “If”, representing the ideal young man of the British Empire, according to Kipling’s imagination, and “My Boy Jack”, written after his son was reported missing in the trenches, a trauma from which Kipling never recovered, and which has been dramatised by Haig, in his play My Boy Jack. The heroic ideal came back to haunt Kipling, after he tried to force his son to live up to it.
Kipling had upper class honour in mind when he used his influence to have his son enlisted, and yet, he was not blind to the reality of a soldier’s life in the shadows of a society of hypocritical snobbery, eloquently expressed in an adequate Cockney accent in “Tommy”:
"I went into a theatre as sober as could be,
They gave a drunk civilian room, but 'adn't none for me;
They sent me to the gallery or round the music-'alls,
But when it comes to fightin', Lord! they'll shove me in the stalls!
For it's Tommy this, an' Tommy that, an' "Tommy, wait outside";
But it's "Special train for Atkins" when the trooper's on the tide,
The troopship's on the tide, my boys, the troopship's on the tide,
O it's "Special train for Atkins" when the trooper's on the tide."
Kipling’s reputation has suffered from the fact that many of his poems are being judged elitist, racist, and misogynistic. He is presenting a case for “the White Man’s Burden” as an apologetic approach to colonialism and (British) superiority, and complaining of “The Female of the Species”, more deadly than the male (and why not mention the humorous poem “The Betrothed” in this context as well, in which the main character has to choose between his fiancée and cigars, with the famous, telling conclusion: “And a woman is only a woman, but a good Cigar is a Smoke”).
All of that can be found in his poems, deeply coloured by the time of which he was a typical representative. Yet, his diverse poems show sensitivity and open curiosity to understand the whole spectrum of humanity as well. He was a child of his time, but not blind or narrow-minded.
Analysing the impact of experience abroad in life, he wrote a beautiful poem set in England during Roman times. A centurion who served there for forty years assimilated with the British population and loved his life away from dominant and presumably superior culture in Rome. The centurion does not want to go back to the celebrated civilisation when his time in Britannia is up. The content can of course easily be transported to Kipling’s times, when Englishmen used to India might have chosen not to return to London after decades in the Indian sun:
"Legate, I come to you in tears—My cohort ordered home!
I’ve served in Britain forty years. What should I do in Rome?
Here is my heart, my soul, my mind—the only life I know.
I cannot leave it all behind. Command me not to go!"
Historical characters, contemporary soldiers, the animals of the jungle, they all have their say in Kipling’s universe. Even machines talk and make a case for their right to be taken seriously:
“We can pull and haul and push and lift and drive,
We can print and plough and weave and heat and light,
We can run and race and swim and fly and dive,
We can see and hear and count and read and write!”
When Kipling was awarded the Nobel Prize in 1907, it was "in consideration of the power of observation, originality of imagination, virility of ideas and remarkable talent for narration which characterize the creations of this world-famous author".
His poems are as great a testimony to that originality of imagination as his prose!
Highly readable as well: the nuanced, thoughtful introduction to this edition by George Orwell, making no excuses for the dated, condescending imperialist worldview, but looking beyond it to see Kipling as a writer and child of his time, not a demon or partisan of a political order.
The Glories, 1925
"IN FAITHS and Food and Books and Friends
Give every soul her choice.
For such as follow divers ends
In divers lights rejoice.
There is a glory of the Sun
('Pity it passeth soon!)
But those whose work is nearer done
Look, rather, towards the Moon.
There is a glory of the Moon
When the hot hours have run;
But such as have not touched their noon
Give worship to the Sun.
There is a glory of the Stars,
Perfect on stilly ways;
But such as follow present wars
Pursue the Comet's blaze.
There is a glory in all things;
But each must find his own,
Sufficient for his reckonings,
Which is to him alone."
August 29, 2012
It would be an interesting thought experiment: Disprove the critical orthodoxy that T.S.Eliot is a better Poet than Kipling?
It's one of the revealing oddities of literary history that Kipling is out of favor for his perceived Ideologies as much as his poetics, while poets like Auden, who thought Stalin was cool, are approved. To be proud of being English, even if that pride is a self critical self aware one as it is with Kipling, damns him as a nationalist while had he been Irish or Scots or Welsh or American or Australian being proud of any of those would have gained him approval as a patriot. Go figure.
And i suspect a lot of people turning up their noses at Kipling either don't read him or read him having decided before hand that he's patriarchal or imperialist or nationalist or whatever.
As Kipling wrote, tongue in cheek, about poets and critics:
Still a cultured Christian age sees us scuffle squeak and rage
Still we pinch and slap and jabber, scratch and dirk
Still we let our business slide-as we dropped the half-dressed hide
To show a fellow savage how to work.
Still the world is wondrous large,-seven seas from marge to marge
And it holds a vast of various kinds of man
And the wildest dreams of Kew are the facts of Khatmandhu
And the crimes of Clapham Chaste in Martaban.
Here's my wisdom for your use, as I learned it when the moose
And the Reindeer roamed where Paris roams tonight
"There are NIne and Sixty ways of constructing tribal lays,
"And Every-SIngle-One-OF-Them-Is- RIght"
( from 'In The Neolithic Age'.)
It's not one of the best poems but it is a truth that gets forgotten.
So forget the two or three poems he wrote which people trot out against him and read the Collected. It allows you to move beyond other people's (critics/editors/protectors of your ideological purity) versions of the man to the work itself.
If poetry is rhythmically organised memorable speech, then Kipling was a great poet with a greater range than most people give him credit for. A much greater range than Eliot, certainly. As the blurb on my copy says: "Witty , profound, acerbic and occasionally savage, Kipling's poetry can be both tender and deeply moving". From the big well known pieces of Barrack Room Ballad, and the once hugely popular poems like 'The Road to Mandalay' and 'Gunga Din' to the quieter Sussex poems like "The Road Through the Woods', to topical barbs like the "Last of the Light Brigade" which ends:
O Thirty million English, that babble of England's might
Behold there are twenty heroes who lack their food tonight
Our children's children are lisping to 'honour the charge they made'
and we leave to the streets and the work house, the charge of the Light brigade!
the lines sing and reward rereading.
He belongs to that almost dead version of poetry when people read it for enjoyment and fell in love with poems and hoarded his lines in their memories:
A Three Part Song
I'm just in love with all these three
The Weald and the Marsh and the Down countree.
Nor I don't know which I love the most,
The Weald or the Marsh or the white Chalk coast!
I've buried my heart in a ferny Hill,
Twix' a liddle low shaw an' a great high gill
Oh Hop-bine yaller an' wood-smoke blue,
I reckon you'll keep her middling true.
I've loosed my mind for to out and run
On a Marsh that was old when King's begun
Oh, Romney Level and Brenzett reeds
I reckon you know what my mind needs.
I've given my soul to the Southdown grass
And sheep=bells tinkled where you pass
Oh, Firle an' Ditchling an' sails at sea
I reckon you keep my soul for me.
It's one of the revealing oddities of literary history that Kipling is out of favor for his perceived Ideologies as much as his poetics, while poets like Auden, who thought Stalin was cool, are approved. To be proud of being English, even if that pride is a self critical self aware one as it is with Kipling, damns him as a nationalist while had he been Irish or Scots or Welsh or American or Australian being proud of any of those would have gained him approval as a patriot. Go figure.
And i suspect a lot of people turning up their noses at Kipling either don't read him or read him having decided before hand that he's patriarchal or imperialist or nationalist or whatever.
As Kipling wrote, tongue in cheek, about poets and critics:
Still a cultured Christian age sees us scuffle squeak and rage
Still we pinch and slap and jabber, scratch and dirk
Still we let our business slide-as we dropped the half-dressed hide
To show a fellow savage how to work.
Still the world is wondrous large,-seven seas from marge to marge
And it holds a vast of various kinds of man
And the wildest dreams of Kew are the facts of Khatmandhu
And the crimes of Clapham Chaste in Martaban.
Here's my wisdom for your use, as I learned it when the moose
And the Reindeer roamed where Paris roams tonight
"There are NIne and Sixty ways of constructing tribal lays,
"And Every-SIngle-One-OF-Them-Is- RIght"
( from 'In The Neolithic Age'.)
It's not one of the best poems but it is a truth that gets forgotten.
So forget the two or three poems he wrote which people trot out against him and read the Collected. It allows you to move beyond other people's (critics/editors/protectors of your ideological purity) versions of the man to the work itself.
If poetry is rhythmically organised memorable speech, then Kipling was a great poet with a greater range than most people give him credit for. A much greater range than Eliot, certainly. As the blurb on my copy says: "Witty , profound, acerbic and occasionally savage, Kipling's poetry can be both tender and deeply moving". From the big well known pieces of Barrack Room Ballad, and the once hugely popular poems like 'The Road to Mandalay' and 'Gunga Din' to the quieter Sussex poems like "The Road Through the Woods', to topical barbs like the "Last of the Light Brigade" which ends:
O Thirty million English, that babble of England's might
Behold there are twenty heroes who lack their food tonight
Our children's children are lisping to 'honour the charge they made'
and we leave to the streets and the work house, the charge of the Light brigade!
the lines sing and reward rereading.
He belongs to that almost dead version of poetry when people read it for enjoyment and fell in love with poems and hoarded his lines in their memories:
A Three Part Song
I'm just in love with all these three
The Weald and the Marsh and the Down countree.
Nor I don't know which I love the most,
The Weald or the Marsh or the white Chalk coast!
I've buried my heart in a ferny Hill,
Twix' a liddle low shaw an' a great high gill
Oh Hop-bine yaller an' wood-smoke blue,
I reckon you'll keep her middling true.
I've loosed my mind for to out and run
On a Marsh that was old when King's begun
Oh, Romney Level and Brenzett reeds
I reckon you know what my mind needs.
I've given my soul to the Southdown grass
And sheep=bells tinkled where you pass
Oh, Firle an' Ditchling an' sails at sea
I reckon you keep my soul for me.
June 11, 2010
Fuzzy-Wuzzy
(Soudan Expeditionary Force)
We've fought with many men acrost the seas,
An' some of 'em was brave an' some was not:
The Paythan an' the Zulu an' Burmese;
But the Fuzzy was the finest o' the lot.
We never got a ha'porth's change of 'im:
'E squatted in the scrub an' 'ocked our 'orses,
'E cut our sentries up at Sua~kim~,
An' 'e played the cat an' banjo with our forces.
So 'ere's ~to~ you, Fuzzy-Wuzzy, at your 'ome in the Soudan;
You're a pore benighted 'eathen but a first-class fightin' man;
We gives you your certificate, an' if you want it signed
We'll come an' 'ave a romp with you whenever you're inclined.
We took our chanst among the Khyber 'ills,
The Boers knocked us silly at a mile,
The Burman give us Irriwaddy chills,
An' a Zulu ~impi~ dished us up in style:
But all we ever got from such as they
Was pop to what the Fuzzy made us swaller;
We 'eld our bloomin' own, the papers say,
But man for man the Fuzzy knocked us 'oller.
Then 'ere's ~to~ you, Fuzzy-Wuzzy, an' the missis and the kid;
Our orders was to break you, an' of course we went an' did.
We sloshed you with Martinis, an' it wasn't 'ardly fair;
But for all the odds agin' you, Fuzzy-Wuz, you broke the square.
'E 'asn't got no papers of 'is own,
'E 'asn't got no medals nor rewards,
So we must certify the skill 'e's shown
In usin' of 'is long two-'anded swords:
When 'e's 'oppin' in an' out among the bush
With 'is coffin-'eaded shield an' shovel-spear,
An 'appy day with Fuzzy on the rush
Will last an 'ealthy Tommy for a year.
So 'ere's ~to~ you, Fuzzy-Wuzzy, an' your friends which are no more,
If we 'adn't lost some messmates we would 'elp you to deplore;
But give an' take's the gospel, an' we'll call the bargain fair,
For if you 'ave lost more than us, you crumpled up the square!
'E rushes at the smoke when we let drive,
An', before we know, 'e's 'ackin' at our 'ead;
'E's all 'ot sand an' ginger when alive,
An' 'e's generally shammin' when 'e's dead.
'E's a daisy, 'e's a ducky, 'e's a lamb!
'E's a injia-rubber idiot on the spree,
'E's the on'y thing that doesn't give a damn
For a Regiment o' British Infantree!
So 'ere's ~to~ you, Fuzzy-Wuzzy, at your 'ome in the Soudan;
You're a pore benighted 'eathen but a first-class fightin' man;
An' 'ere's ~to~ you, Fuzzy-Wuzzy, with your 'ayrick 'ead of 'air --
You big black boundin' beggar -- for you broke a British square!
(Soudan Expeditionary Force)
We've fought with many men acrost the seas,
An' some of 'em was brave an' some was not:
The Paythan an' the Zulu an' Burmese;
But the Fuzzy was the finest o' the lot.
We never got a ha'porth's change of 'im:
'E squatted in the scrub an' 'ocked our 'orses,
'E cut our sentries up at Sua~kim~,
An' 'e played the cat an' banjo with our forces.
So 'ere's ~to~ you, Fuzzy-Wuzzy, at your 'ome in the Soudan;
You're a pore benighted 'eathen but a first-class fightin' man;
We gives you your certificate, an' if you want it signed
We'll come an' 'ave a romp with you whenever you're inclined.
We took our chanst among the Khyber 'ills,
The Boers knocked us silly at a mile,
The Burman give us Irriwaddy chills,
An' a Zulu ~impi~ dished us up in style:
But all we ever got from such as they
Was pop to what the Fuzzy made us swaller;
We 'eld our bloomin' own, the papers say,
But man for man the Fuzzy knocked us 'oller.
Then 'ere's ~to~ you, Fuzzy-Wuzzy, an' the missis and the kid;
Our orders was to break you, an' of course we went an' did.
We sloshed you with Martinis, an' it wasn't 'ardly fair;
But for all the odds agin' you, Fuzzy-Wuz, you broke the square.
'E 'asn't got no papers of 'is own,
'E 'asn't got no medals nor rewards,
So we must certify the skill 'e's shown
In usin' of 'is long two-'anded swords:
When 'e's 'oppin' in an' out among the bush
With 'is coffin-'eaded shield an' shovel-spear,
An 'appy day with Fuzzy on the rush
Will last an 'ealthy Tommy for a year.
So 'ere's ~to~ you, Fuzzy-Wuzzy, an' your friends which are no more,
If we 'adn't lost some messmates we would 'elp you to deplore;
But give an' take's the gospel, an' we'll call the bargain fair,
For if you 'ave lost more than us, you crumpled up the square!
'E rushes at the smoke when we let drive,
An', before we know, 'e's 'ackin' at our 'ead;
'E's all 'ot sand an' ginger when alive,
An' 'e's generally shammin' when 'e's dead.
'E's a daisy, 'e's a ducky, 'e's a lamb!
'E's a injia-rubber idiot on the spree,
'E's the on'y thing that doesn't give a damn
For a Regiment o' British Infantree!
So 'ere's ~to~ you, Fuzzy-Wuzzy, at your 'ome in the Soudan;
You're a pore benighted 'eathen but a first-class fightin' man;
An' 'ere's ~to~ you, Fuzzy-Wuzzy, with your 'ayrick 'ead of 'air --
You big black boundin' beggar -- for you broke a British square!
January 31, 2020
"If" has, and always will be, on my list of favourite poems. Unfortunately though, most of Kipling's poetry, the way I see it, was meant to be sung, which is something I can't seem to enjoy, as those would be songs, as opposed to poems. I'm not saying they're not good, but they're not my style of poetry.
October 24, 2020
This densely packed volume is a real treasure trove of poetry spanning a variety of subjects. Most people when they think of Kipling will think about his war poems and The Jungle Book, but he was so much more than that. My personal favourites of his delve into the more abstract and even supernatural.
If, in by itself, is reason enough to buy this volume. Even if Kipling isn't your cup of tea, it's an essential, inspiring poem that to me, resonates more than ever. Other personal highlights were The Vampire, Blue Roses and Sepulchral.
If, in by itself, is reason enough to buy this volume. Even if Kipling isn't your cup of tea, it's an essential, inspiring poem that to me, resonates more than ever. Other personal highlights were The Vampire, Blue Roses and Sepulchral.
December 7, 2021
Say what they will about Kipling's "white man's burden" literature, I love his style and the way he makes the scene leap right out at you. My favorites, East is East and West is West and Gunga Din. He might have been the last of the writers of metered poetry with mandatory rhyme. What was good enough for Shakespeare is good enough for me!
June 2, 2021
There are some absolute gems in this book - “If” is a favourite of mine - but there are some stinkers too! Kipling is regarded as the best of the bad poets and sometimes it becomes apparent (I particularly enjoyed rhyming ‘British Isles’ with ‘crocodiles’ in a verse about cricket!)
April 1, 2023
Ah the incomparable Kipling! 'If' we are told is one the world's favourite poems. But there is so much more, from the Barrack Room Ballads to the haunting Recessional. This is very much a volume into which you can dip for the joy of dsicvering new gesm as aewll as being remined of hoiw many of his lines have entered everyday English. Patriot he was, Imperialist he was, but always his trenchant views weresuffused with a stern sense of duty, and tinged with warning. Perhaps the abding love of his life was India and Indians )(Ginga Din, for instance), the inspiration for so much of his best work. He will long survive in the pantheon of great writers, when his modern-day detractors are long-forgotten.
July 26, 2024
The poetry was generally fantastic but I really question the organizational structure of the collection itself. Really took me out of it when it would jump aggressively between motifs without any structural break to tell me "we're leaving India now," "we're talking about seafaring," etc.
June 6, 2021
He wrote some great poems and some awful ones!
March 15, 2025
I enjoyed reading through Kiplings poems.
July 27, 2025
For the temple-bells are calling, and it's there that I would be
By the old Moulmein Pagoda, looking lazy at the sea
By the old Moulmein Pagoda, looking lazy at the sea
August 18, 2020
Loved them
December 8, 2014
Well, I've finished these at last in a 1930 edition titled the 'Inclusive Edition 1885-1926'. I started enthusiastically 4 years ago, but got bogged down by the time I was a third of the way through by what seemed to me to be an increase in versifying rather than an increase in poetic intensity. Mind you, I didn't quite know how the poems were arranged: thematically, chronologically...? I wanted to think they were chronological so I could follow Kipling's development as a poet, but I don't think they were, and the Kipling Society online pages often offered useful help in determining when they were written and what they were about. The context of their composition was often important, and it made me revisit the way literature is so much a product of its time. So, from that point of view, the slog was worthwhile.
And many of the poems were worthwhile, too, of course. My brother-in-law, who is an engineer, has a standard presentation which starts with a consideration of 'McAndrew's Hymn' which is also a favourite, I believe, of Jonty Driver's (South African novelist and poet). I like that one as well, and most of the early gently satirical poems about the Raj, as well as most of the Boer War poems. As someone who was brought up mostly in Sussex, I like 'Sussex' and 'The Land' (which is probably one of my Desert Island poems), and, in a schoolboy way, I liked the poems based on British History. The broadly moralising stuff I found tedious, and I often found that the verse forms and rhythms and the use of choric elements impeded understanding as they became distractingly hypnotic.
But Kipling's technical craftsmanship, nevertheless, was properly admirable, and, once I learned to set aside a lot of prejudice about Victorianism and Empire, I usually felt I was in the presence of a writer who understood, celebrated and held up for our admiration human endeavour and courage.
And many of the poems were worthwhile, too, of course. My brother-in-law, who is an engineer, has a standard presentation which starts with a consideration of 'McAndrew's Hymn' which is also a favourite, I believe, of Jonty Driver's (South African novelist and poet). I like that one as well, and most of the early gently satirical poems about the Raj, as well as most of the Boer War poems. As someone who was brought up mostly in Sussex, I like 'Sussex' and 'The Land' (which is probably one of my Desert Island poems), and, in a schoolboy way, I liked the poems based on British History. The broadly moralising stuff I found tedious, and I often found that the verse forms and rhythms and the use of choric elements impeded understanding as they became distractingly hypnotic.
But Kipling's technical craftsmanship, nevertheless, was properly admirable, and, once I learned to set aside a lot of prejudice about Victorianism and Empire, I usually felt I was in the presence of a writer who understood, celebrated and held up for our admiration human endeavour and courage.
March 2, 2015
"If down here I chance to die,
Solemnly I beg you to take
All that is left of 'I'
To the Hills for old sake's sake.
Pack me very thoroughly
In the ice I used to slake
Pegs I drank when I was dry-
This observe for old sake's sake."
-"A Ballade of Burial"
I think I certainly have mixed opinions about Kipling. Maybe my overall sense of boredom comes from the fact that this collection is massive, but I can't say that the content inside the book is as captivating as I had hoped for. While I found some real gems from time to time when making my way through, I sense that a lot of the verses were not interesting enough to me.
The main issue I had was just that there was so much about war and imperialism, and while that sounds exciting, it gets old so very quickly. Besides this, I think that Kipling's other verses on other topics is pretty good; there was a set of poems in this collection that I especially liked in which he wrote poems on various topics while trying to take on the style of other iconic poets. Brilliant! If he had done more of that, maybe I would have enjoyed myself more.
Solemnly I beg you to take
All that is left of 'I'
To the Hills for old sake's sake.
Pack me very thoroughly
In the ice I used to slake
Pegs I drank when I was dry-
This observe for old sake's sake."
-"A Ballade of Burial"
I think I certainly have mixed opinions about Kipling. Maybe my overall sense of boredom comes from the fact that this collection is massive, but I can't say that the content inside the book is as captivating as I had hoped for. While I found some real gems from time to time when making my way through, I sense that a lot of the verses were not interesting enough to me.
The main issue I had was just that there was so much about war and imperialism, and while that sounds exciting, it gets old so very quickly. Besides this, I think that Kipling's other verses on other topics is pretty good; there was a set of poems in this collection that I especially liked in which he wrote poems on various topics while trying to take on the style of other iconic poets. Brilliant! If he had done more of that, maybe I would have enjoyed myself more.
October 19, 2008
I love taking this down sometimes and just flicking through to read a random poem. I love the range of poetry Kipling wrote -- and never quite realised before how much he wrote.
Want to read
July 6, 2010highly referenced and full of insiders' asides, needs a lot more footnoting.
March 9, 2020
FAVOURITES:
Gentleman ranker [1892]
If [1895]
A Death-Bed [1918]
Gods of the Copybook Headings [1919]
Gentleman ranker [1892]
If [1895]
A Death-Bed [1918]
Gods of the Copybook Headings [1919]
Read
May 1, 2017Edition: New edition
Displaying 1 - 19 of 19 reviews