XII. Truth of Love
(from Twelve Songs)
Some say that love's a little boy,
And some say it's a bird,
Some say it makes the world go round,
And some say that's absurd,
And when I asked the man next--door,
Who looked as if he knew,
His wife got very cross indeed,
And said it wouldn't do.
Does it look like a pair of pyjamas,
Or the ham in a temperance hotel?
Does its odour remind one of lammas,
Or has it a comforting smell?
Is it prickly to touch as a hedge is,
Or soft as eiderdown fluff?
Is it sharp or quite smooth at the edges?
O tell me the truth of love.
Our history books refer to it
In cryptic little notes,
It's quite a common topic on
The Transatlantic boats;
I've found the subject mentioned in
Accounts of suicides,
And even seen it scribbled on
The backs of railway--guides.
Does it howl like a hungry Alsatian,
Or boom like a military band?
Could one give a first--rate imitation
On a saw or a Steinway Grand?
Is its singing at parties a riot?
Does it only like Classical stuff?
Will it stop when one wants to be quiet?
O tell me the truth about love.
I looked inside the summer--house;
It wasn't ever there:
I tried the Thames at Maidenhead,
And Brighton's bracing air.
I don't know what the blackbird sang,
Or what the tulip said;
But it wasn't in the chicken--run,
Or underneath the bed.
Can it pull extraordinary faces?
Is it usually sick on a swing?
Does it spend all its time at the races,
Or fiddling with pieces of spring?
Has it views of its own about money?
Does it think Patriotism enough?
Are its stories vulgar or funny?
O tell me the truth about love.
When it comes, will it come without warning
Just as I'm picking my nose?
Will it knock on my door in the morning,
Or tread in the bus on my toes?
Will it come like a change in the weather?
Will its greeting be courteous or rough?
Will it alter my life altogether?
O tell me the truth about love.
W.H.Auden
A lighter poem, and one that shows Auden's technical skill with
writing different types of verse, including a jogging along song like
this. And note the teasing possible gay reference in the first
lines: "And when I asked the man next-door,/ Who looked as if he
knew,/ His wife got very cross indeed,/And said it wouldn't do."
Auden wrote a lot of lighter verse, and this poem with its satirical
lines ("It's quite a common topic on/ The Transatlantic boats") or
absurd images seems to be one of them. But perhaps because its Auden
writing it, one gets a sense of something more being said, a feeling,
sometimes menacing, sometimes (as in this poem) yearning beneath the
light words.
Underneath the easy surface this poem is asking painful questions
about the nature of love and how little we know of it. Will it
happen? How will we recognise when it happens? How much will it
change us when it happens? What happens if it never happens? Do we
want it to happen if we don't know what will happen when it happens?
All questions we ask ourselves all the time.
Vikram
