A poem in which you're thankful for something. And it isn't even November.
Well, this theme didn't come from nowhere. We're all haunted by this and that, and some part of the creative corner of my mind has been haunted for a while by Samuel Hynes' The Auden Generation, and his evocation of the young Isherwood creating a mythical country, the young Auden writing about journeys to and across borders, as a generation of poets embraced socialism, prepared for war, argued about the purpose of poetry in a workers' paradise.
thanks to Auden
for inspiration
the leftist
poets of the Thirties
they believed in
the revolution
in borders
murky not safe to cross
Isherwood
staying in Berlin
for the sex
then to watch the rise of
Hitler's Third Reich
ideals smashed close up
Kristallnacht
the front now everywhere
some went to Spain
Spender John Cornford
who died there
along with idealism
Auden to New York
hopes expired but that
came later
this is thanks to Auden
who crossed borders
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