In preparation for an expected onslaught of visitors to York, England, W. H. Auden’s birth city, cab drivers have been memorizing some of his poetry.… When tourists arrive to celebrate the centenary of Mr. Auden’s birth this year, their cabbies will recite his verse. —The Times
E was me Norf, me Souf, me East and West,
Me working week and me Sund’y rest,
Me noon, me midnight, me talk, me song;
I thought that love would last forever: I was wrong.
’E ’ad a gentleman friend, Mr. Auden did, dinnee? Bit of a trouser man, orroight? That seems to be the way nowadays, innit, wif actors and MPs and clergy and wot ’ave you. In my day, there weren’t a need to fling yer spanky knackers into other folks’ faces all jumble-wumble and ’ere’s-mine-guv’nor. Though the missus did drag me to see Mr. Rudolf Nureyev at the ballet once. That man packed a full bag of groceries, dinnee?
Lady, weepin’ at the crossroads,
Would yer maight yer love
In the twilight wif ’is greyhounds,
And the ’awk on ’is glove?
’Ello, ’ello—bit complicated, that one, it starts to go ower yer ’ead, so supposin’ I shed some light on some of its more shadowy byways. Crooks and nannies it ’as. Now, this ’ere is wot they call parsin’, not as in parse-the-butter-please-luv but as in parse-the-poem-so-we-don’t-all-feel-like-bleedin’-eejits. What Mr. Auden is doin’ in this one, I think, is forebodin’ some of the messin’ about we’re currently seein’ in the Middle East, a topic on which I ’ave a ready familiarity, ’avin’ long been a fan o’ the chickpea in its various fried and non-fried guises. The ’awk on the glove, of course, bein’ yer vivid symbol of the U.S.’s imperialist leanin’s and its might-makes-right attitude toward both its client states and other superpowers, orroight? Mr. Auden asks us, Is it roight that the country wif the most advantages should act this way? Course it ain’t, guv’nor. But that’s life, innit? ’Snot fair! ’Snot fair atall! The bone Mr. Auden would like us to chew on ’ere is the question: Does Mr. Bush ’ave any conception or understandin’ of all this? Does ’e, then? Yer as welcome as Christmas to yer own opinion, but I think not. Mr. B. simply thinks ’e’s sendin’ a message to those wogs over in Arsefuckistan, if you’ll pardon my parlay-voo. Problem is, the message ain’t in their language, see? It’s a birfday ’at on a cactus—needles where yer wants ears.
Self-drivers may curse their luck,
Stuck on new-fangled trails,
But the good old train’ll jog
To the dogma of its rails.
Corblimey, ’e was good, Auden was! Prince of a writer. Don’ fink ’e ever drove a cab, but ’e mighta done, ’e mighta done. The writah mightah triedah done.… Nah—’e was a tutor, professor, reviewer. Collaborator. If I remember my preparatory materials correctly, ’e was collegial-like wif Mr. Christopher Isherwood, and I believe the collegiality extended into other areas, such as each other’s Y-fronts. But yer can ’ardly blame Auden, can yer? I mean, ’is mate’s name was practically I sure would. So yer would, wouldn’t yer? Of course yer would. I mean, Bob is, after all, yer uncle.
Sing, Ariel, sing,
Sweetly, dangerously
Out of the sour
And shiftless water,
Lucidly out
Of the dozin’ tree,
Entrancin’, rebukin’
The ragin’ ’eart
Wif a smoother song
Than this rough world,
Unfeelin’ god.
This bit ’ere that I’ve memorized for the ed-you-fication and innertainment of me passengers is not entirely related to the followin’ anecdote, orroight, but I will tell you that I once drove Miss Vicky Entwistle from Coronation Street all the way from Tower Street ’ere in York to Paddington Station. Very good tipper, Vicky Entwistle is. Very good, sure as nuts. I don’ give two monkeys about ’er theatricalizin’, but I’ll praise her way round a pound note, I will. ’Er fans worship ’er, and the ol’ gal worships ’em right back—as I always tell me wife, “We must love one another or die alone.”
Yer need not see what someone is doin’
to know if it is ’is vocation,
yer ’ave only to watch ’is eyes:
a cook mixin’ a sauce, a surgeon
makin’ a primary incision,
a clerk completin’ a bill of ladin’,
wear the same rapt expression,
forgettin’ ’emselves in a function.
But, see ’ere, I’m a driver, I am, so I can’t intirely forget meself in a function, roight, I’ve got to keep me beady eyes peeled for—[CRASH]—Oh, crikey! Bleedin’ Christ! Jaysus H. Christ. Are yer a’roight, guv? Dinnit see ’im comin’! Roight out o’ nowhere ’e come! Eyes of a killer ’e ’as. ’Ow is’t? Are yer able to move? ’Ere’s an ’andkerchief for stanchin’ purposes, orroight?
Oh, God in ’eaven, whatever ’ave we done to deserve this? Where’s Auden when yer needs him? “Lady weepin’ at the crossroads” doesn’t even begin to describe it, now, duzzit? Nah, nah. But I suppose “unfeelin’ God” ’as some of the resonance that we ask o’ the classics.… Take the thick wif th’ thin, and this were a bit o’ thin, wot? Orroight, ’ang on, guv. ’Ang on. Just keep breavin’. We’ll ’ave you in ’ospital in no time, sure as nuts. No time atall … Yer niver knows where a poem’ll take yer, do yer? One minute yer parsin’ some of the better Auden, and the next yer covered in blood, face down on the back seat of a cab that ’asn’t ’ad a proper washin’-up since the Profumo affair. Nasty business, poetry. Nastier than a tainted cockle. More of a prose man, meself.
2007