Rudyard Kipling...my idol, actually.  

Widely known as the author of The Jungle Book and pretty much otherwise disregarded entirely of late, this man was actually pretty darned amazing!

I grant you, he was notoriously chauvinistic about British Imperialism (and somewhat racist, as well) as revealed in his 1899 poem White Man's Burden, but his insights into human nature in general and the society of British Colonial India and the peoples of the Hind and Punjab are so sweeping and fascinating that, as a child, I was compelled by his influence alone to look up nearly every reference on the subject that our school libraries contained. Kim remains the absolute treasure of my childhood reading adventures.

The following details are quoted from The Literature Network (http://www.literature-web.net/kipling).


Rudyard Kipling was born on December 30, 1865, in Bombay, India, where his father was an arts and crafts teacher at the Jeejeebhoy School of Art. His mother was a sister-in-law of the painter Edward Burne-Jones. At the age of six he was taken to England by his parents and left for five years at a foster home at Southsea. His unhappiness at the unkind treatment he received was later expressed in the short story "Baa Baa, Black Sheep", in the novel The Light That Failed (1890), and in his autobiography (1937).

In 1878 Kipling entered United Services College, a boarding school in North Devon. It was an expensive institution that specialized in training for entry into military academies. His poor eyesight and mediocre results as a student ended his hopes for a military career. However, Kipling recalled these years in a lighter tone in one of his most popular books, Stalky & Co (1899). Kipling returned to India in 1882, where he worked as a journalist in Lahore for the Civil and Military Gazette (1882-87) and as an assistant editor and overseas correspondent in Allahabad for the Pioneer (1887-89). The stories written during his last two years in India were collected in The Phantom Rickshaw. (1888 )"





His works for children, among them The Jungle Book and The Just-so Stories, are equally fascinating to adults of any degree of whimsical bent, and his tales of life abroad enthralled an English readership during his life and after.  Much of the lack of respect he receives of today's literary world may well stem from the lack of offical honors to his credit, but this is misleading: he was regarded as an unofficial poet laureatte only because he declined the official title, just as he was offered and declined many other British honors...among them the Order of Merit.  As a voice to give the world ... and the world of poetry ... to the people, I personally regard him as the British equivalent of America's Robert W. Service Jr.

(quote resumed)
"Married to Caroline Starr Balestier, with whom he collaborated on a novel, The Naulakha(1892) the young couple moved to the United States. Kipling, though, was dissatisfied with the life in Vermont, and after the death of his daughter, he took his family back to England and settled in Burwash, Sussex. 

Kim, widely considered Kipling's best novel appeared in 1901. The story, set in India, depicted the adventures of an orphaned son of a sergeant in an Irish regiment. The children's historical work Puck of Pook's Hill appeared in 1906 and its sequel Rewards and Fairies in 1910.

Soon after Kipling had received the Nobel Prize, his output of fiction and poems began to decline. His son was killed in the World War I, and in 1923 Kipling published The Irish Guards In The Great War , a history of his son's regiment. Kipling died on January 18, 1936 in London, and was buried in Poet's Corner at Westminster Abbey. His autobiography, Something Of Myself, appeared posthumously in 1937."  

But this is a poetry forum, and I have to say that Kipling's poetry may have been the largest singular influence on my perception of the art.  His best-known poem is probably the tale of the native water-bearer (bhisti) to a British regiment in India ... a man named Gunga Din.

You may talk o' gin and beer
When you're quartered safe out 'ere,
An' you're sent to penny-fights an' Aldershot it;
But when it comes to slaughter
You will do your work on water,
An' you'll lick the bloomin' boots of 'im that's got it.
Now in Injia's sunny clime,
Where I used to spend my time
A-servin' of 'Er Majesty the Queen,
Of all them blackfaced crew
The finest man I knew
Was our regimental bhisti, Gunga Din.
He was "Din! Din! Din!
You limpin' lump o' brick-dust, Gunga Din!
Hi! slippery ~hitherao~!
Water, get it! ~Panee lao~! 
You squidgy-nosed old idol, Gunga Din."

The uniform 'e wore
Was nothin' much before,
An' rather less than 'arf o' that be'ind,
For a piece o' twisty rag
An' a goatskin water-bag
Was all the field-equipment 'e could find.
When the sweatin' troop-train lay
In a sidin' through the day,
Where the 'eat would make your bloomin' eyebrows crawl,
We shouted "Harry By!" 
Till our throats were bricky-dry,
Then we wopped 'im 'cause 'e couldn't serve us all.
It was "Din! Din! Din!
You 'eathen, where the mischief 'ave you been?
You put some ~juldee~ in it
Or I'll ~marrow~ you this minute 
If you don't fill up my helmet, Gunga Din!"

'E would dot an' carry one
Till the longest day was done;
An' 'e didn't seem to know the use o' fear.
If we charged or broke or cut,
You could bet your bloomin' nut,
'E'd be waitin' fifty paces right flank rear.
With 'is ~mussick~ on 'is back, 
'E would skip with our attack,
An' watch us till the bugles made "Retire",
An' for all 'is dirty 'ide
'E was white, clear white, inside
When 'e went to tend the wounded under fire!
It was "Din! Din! Din!"
With the bullets kickin' dust-spots on the green.
When the cartridges ran out,
You could hear the front-files shout,
"Hi! ammunition-mules an' Gunga Din!"

I shan't forgit the night
When I dropped be'ind the fight
With a bullet where my belt-plate should 'a' been.
I was chokin' mad with thirst,
An' the man that spied me first
Was our good old grinnin', gruntin' Gunga Din.
'E lifted up my 'ead,
An' he plugged me where I bled,
An' 'e guv me 'arf-a-pint o' water-green:
It was crawlin' and it stunk,
But of all the drinks I've drunk,
I'm gratefullest to one from Gunga Din.
It was "Din! Din! Din!
'Ere's a beggar with a bullet through 'is spleen;
'E's chawin' up the ground,
An' 'e's kickin' all around:
For Gawd's sake git the water, Gunga Din!"

'E carried me away
To where a dooli lay,
An' a bullet come an' drilled the beggar clean.
'E put me safe inside,
An' just before 'e died,
"I 'ope you liked your drink", sez Gunga Din.
So I'll meet 'im later on
At the place where 'e is gone --
Where it's always double drill and no canteen;
'E'll be squattin' on the coals
Givin' drink to poor darned souls,
An' I'll get a swig in hell from Gunga Din!
Yes, Din! Din! Din!
You Lazarushian-leather Gunga Din!
Though I've belted you and flayed you,
By the livin' Gawd that made you,
You're a better man than I am, Gunga Din!

It may appear 'quaint' for the dialect and the dry British humor over the dead-serious, but this was a dead-serious work ... in direct contrast to the 'accepted' racism of the British in India...as clear statement of the true equality of the natives as was Bobbie Burns' 'A mon's a mon for a' that' was of equality between the classes.

More tongue in cheek, but perhaps as serious in their way, were his The Betrothed, (a plaint by a man having been handed an ultimatum by his fiancee..."cigars or me") and the lesser known The Vampire. 

The Betrothed 



Open the old cigar-box, get me a Cuba stout, 
For things are running crossways, and Maggie and I are out. 

We quarrelled about Havanas -- we fought o'er a good cheroot, 
And I knew she is exacting, and she says I am a brute. 

Open the old cigar-box -- let me consider a space; 
In the soft blue veil of the vapour musing on Maggie's face. 

Maggie is pretty to look at -- Maggie's a loving lass, 
But the prettiest cheeks must wrinkle, the truest of loves must pass. 

There's peace in a Larranaga, there's calm in a Henry Clay; 
But the best cigar in an hour is finished and thrown away -- 

Thrown away for another as perfect and ripe and brown -- 
But I could not throw away Maggie for fear o' the talk o' the town! 

Maggie, my wife at fifty -- grey and dour and old -- 
With never another Maggie to purchase for love or gold! 

And the light of Days that have Been the dark of the Days that Are, 
And Love's torch stinking and stale, like the butt of a dead cigar -- 

The butt of a dead cigar you are bound to keep in your pocket -- 
With never a new one to light tho' it's charred and black to the socket! 

Open the old cigar-box -- let me consider a while. 
Here is a mild Manila -- there is a wifely smile. 

Which is the better portion -- bondage bought with a ring, 
Or a harem of dusky beauties, fifty tied in a string? 

Counsellors cunning and silent -- comforters true and tried, 
And never a one of the fifty to sneer at a rival bride? 

Thought in the early morning, solace in time of woes, 
Peace in the hush of the twilight, balm ere my eyelids close, 

This will the fifty give me, asking nought in return, 
With only a Suttee's passion -- to do their duty and burn. 

This will the fifty give me. When they are spent and dead, 
Five times other fifties shall be my servants instead. 

The furrows of far-off Java, the isles of the Spanish Main, 
When they hear my harem is empty will send me my brides again. 

I will take no heed to their raiment, nor food for their mouths withal, 
So long as the gulls are nesting, so long as the showers fall. 

I will scent 'em with best vanilla, with tea will I temper their hides, 
And the Moor and the Mormon shall envy who read of the tale of my brides. 

For Maggie has written a letter to give me my choice between 
The wee little whimpering Love and the great god Nick o' Teen. 

And I have been servant of Love for barely a twelvemonth clear, 
But I have been Priest of Cabanas a matter of seven year; 

And the gloom of my bachelor days is flecked with the cheery light 
Of stumps that I burned to Friendship and Pleasure and Work and Fight. 

And I turn my eyes to the future that Maggie and I must prove, 
But the only light on the marshes is the Will-o'-the-Wisp of Love. 

Will it see me safe through my journey or leave me bogged in the mire? 
Since a puff of tobacco can cloud it, shall I follow the fitful fire? 

Open the old cigar-box -- let me consider anew -- 
Old friends, and who is Maggie that I should abandon you? 

A million surplus Maggies are willing to bear the yoke; 
And a woman is only a woman, but a good Cigar is a Smoke. 

Light me another Cuba -- I hold to my first-sworn vows. 
If Maggie will have no rival, I'll have no Maggie for Spouse!


Likewise humorous and serious, and as to-the-point concerning accusations of misogyny by his critics was his obscure The Vampire.

A fool there was and he made his prayer
(Even as you or I!)
To a rag and a bone and a hank of hair,
(We called her the woman who did not care),
But the fool he called her his lady fair--
(Even as you or I!)

Oh, the years we waste and the tears we waste,
And the work of our head and hand
Belong to the woman who did not know
(And now we know that she never could know)
And did not understand!

A fool there was and his goods he spent,
(Even as you or I!)
Honour and faith and a sure intent
(And it wasn't the least what the lady meant),
But a fool must follow his natural bent
(Even as you or I!)

Oh, the toil we lost and the spoil we lost
And the excellent things we planned
Belong to the woman who didn't know why
(And now we know that she never knew why)
And did not understand!

The fool was stripped to his foolish hide,
(Even as you or I!)
Which she might have seen when she threw him aside--
(But it isn't on record the lady tried)
So some of him lived but the most of him died--
(Even as you or I!)

``And it isn't the shame and it isn't the blame
That stings like a white-hot brand--
It's coming to know that she never knew why
(Seeing, at last, she could never know why)
And never could understand!''

Perhaps the greatest measure of any literary figure's influence is when his words enter the language as cliche: how often he is quoted and the speaker has no idea who he quotes.  It happens with the first line of Kipling's THE BALLAD OF EAST AND WEST...and y'all, this is a tale to stir the blood, and all the more powerful for the rhyme and rhythm carried throughout a very long poem!  (When you start to think it simplistic work, after all...take a look at the intricate patterns of the occasional internal rhymes, and catch the feel of the galloping horses in the rhythm...you'll hear the distinct echo of Alfred Noyes' influence.)


Oh, East is East, and West is West, and never the twain shall meet,
Till Earth and Sky stand presently at God's great Judgment Seat;
But there is neither East nor West, Border, nor Breed, nor Birth,
When two strong men stand face to face,
tho' they come from the ends of the earth!

Kamal is out with twenty men to raise the Border-side,
And he has lifted the Colonel's mare that is the Colonel's pride:
He has lifted her out of the stable-door between the dawn and the day,
And turned the calkins upon her feet, and ridden her far away.
Then up and spoke the Colonel's son that led a troop of the Guides:
"Is there never a man of all my men can say where Kamal hides?"
Then up and spoke Mahommed Khan, the son of the Ressaldar:
"If ye know the track of the morning-mist, ye know where his pickets are.
At dusk he harries the Abazai -- at dawn he is into Bonair,
But he must go by Fort Bukloh to his own place to fare,
So if ye gallop to Fort Bukloh as fast as a bird can fly,
By the favour of God ye may cut him off ere he win to the Tongue of Jagai.
But if he be past the Tongue of Jagai, right swiftly turn ye then,
For the length and the breadth of that grisly plain is sown with Kamal's men.
There is rock to the left, and rock to the right, and low lean thorn between,
And ye may hear a breech-bolt snick where never a man is seen."
The Colonel's son has taken a horse, and a raw rough dun was he,
With the mouth of a bell and the heart of Hell
and the head of the gallows-tree.
The Colonel's son to the Fort has won, they bid him stay to eat --
Who rides at the tail of a Border thief, he sits not long at his meat.
He's up and away from Fort Bukloh as fast as he can fly,
Till he was aware of his father's mare in the gut of the Tongue of Jagai,
Till he was aware of his father's mare with Kamal upon her back,
And when he could spy the white of her eye, he made the pistol crack.
He has fired once, he has fired twice, but the whistling ball went wide.
"Ye shoot like a soldier," Kamal said. "Show now if ye can ride."
It's up and over the Tongue of Jagai, as blown dustdevils go,
The dun he fled like a stag of ten, but the mare like a barren doe.
The dun he leaned against the bit and slugged his head above,
But the red mare played with the snaffle-bars, as a maiden plays with a glove.
There was rock to the left and rock to the right, and low lean thorn between,
And thrice he heard a breech-bolt snick tho' never a man was seen.
They have ridden the low moon out of the sky, their hoofs drum up the dawn,
The dun he went like a wounded bull, but the mare like a new-roused fawn.
The dun he fell at a water-course -- in a woful heap fell he,
And Kamal has turned the red mare back, and pulled the rider free.
He has knocked the pistol out of his hand -- small room was there to strive,
"'Twas only by favour of mine," quoth he, "ye rode so long alive:
There was not a rock for twenty mile, there was not a clump of tree,
But covered a man of my own men with his rifle cocked on his knee.
If I had raised my bridle-hand, as I have held it low,
The little jackals that flee so fast were feasting all in a row:
If I had bowed my head on my breast, as I have held it high,
The kite that whistles above us now were gorged till she could not fly."
Lightly answered the Colonel's son: "Do good to bird and beast,
But count who come for the broken meats before thou makest a feast.
If there should follow a thousand swords to carry my bones away,
Belike the price of a jackal's meal were more than a thief could pay.
They will feed their horse on the standing crop,
their men on the garnered grain,
The thatch of the byres will serve their fires when all the cattle are slain.
But if thou thinkest the price be fair, -- thy brethren wait to sup,
The hound is kin to the jackal-spawn, -- howl, dog, and call them up!
And if thou thinkest the price be high, in steer and gear and stack,
Give me my father's mare again, and I'll fight my own way back!"
Kamal has gripped him by the hand and set him upon his feet.
"No talk shall be of dogs," said he, "when wolf and gray wolf meet.
May I eat dirt if thou hast hurt of me in deed or breath;
What dam of lances brought thee forth to jest at the dawn with Death?"
Lightly answered the Colonel's son: "I hold by the blood of my clan:
Take up the mare for my father's gift -- by God, she has carried a man!"
The red mare ran to the Colonel's son, and nuzzled against his breast;
"We be two strong men," said Kamal then, "but she loveth the younger best.
So she shall go with a lifter's dower, my turquoise-studded rein,
My broidered saddle and saddle-cloth, and silver stirrups twain."
The Colonel's son a pistol drew and held it muzzle-end,
"Ye have taken the one from a foe," said he;
"will ye take the mate from a friend?"
"A gift for a gift," said Kamal straight; "a limb for the risk of a limb.
Thy father has sent his son to me, I'll send my son to him!"
With that he whistled his only son, that dropped from a mountain-crest --
He trod the ling like a buck in spring, and he looked like a lance in rest.
"Now here is thy master," Kamal said, "who leads a troop of the Guides,
And thou must ride at his left side as shield on shoulder rides.
Till Death or I cut loose the tie, at camp and board and bed,
Thy life is his -- thy fate it is to guard him with thy head.
So, thou must eat the White Queen's meat, and all her foes are thine,
And thou must harry thy father's hold for the peace of the Border-line,
And thou must make a trooper tough and hack thy way to power --
Belike they will raise thee to Ressaldar when I am hanged in Peshawur."

They have looked each other between the eyes, and there they found no fault,
They have taken the Oath of the Brother-in-Blood on leavened bread and salt:
They have taken the Oath of the Brother-in-Blood on fire and fresh-cut sod,
On the hilt and the haft of the Khyber knife, and the Wondrous Names of God.
The Colonel's son he rides the mare and Kamal's boy the dun,
And two have come back to Fort Bukloh where there went forth but one.
And when they drew to the Quarter-Guard, full twenty swords flew clear --
There was not a man but carried his feud with the blood of the mountaineer.
"Ha' done! ha' done!" said the Colonel's son.
"Put up the steel at your sides!
Last night ye had struck at a Border thief --
to-night 'tis a man of the Guides!"

Oh, East is East, and West is West, and never the twain shall meet,
Till Earth and Sky stand presently at God's great Judgment Seat;
But there is neither East nor West, Border, nor Breed, nor Birth,
When two strong men stand face to face,
tho' they come from the ends of the earth!

...and it is all due to Kipling that the execution of a soldier by hanging is, to this day, called "doing him the Danny Deever".

"What are the bugles blowin' for?" said Files-on-Parade.
"To turn you out, to turn you out", the Colour-Sergeant said.
"What makes you look so white, so white?" said Files-on-Parade.
"I'm dreadin' what I've got to watch", the Colour-Sergeant said.
For they're hangin' Danny Deever, you can hear the Dead March play,
The regiment's in 'ollow square -- they're hangin' him to-day;
They've taken of his buttons off an' cut his stripes away,
An' they're hangin' Danny Deever in the mornin'.

"What makes the rear-rank breathe so 'ard?" said Files-on-Parade.
"It's bitter cold, it's bitter cold", the Colour-Sergeant said.
"What makes that front-rank man fall down?" said Files-on-Parade.
"A touch o' sun, a touch o' sun", the Colour-Sergeant said.
They are hangin' Danny Deever, they are marchin' of 'im round,
They 'ave 'alted Danny Deever by 'is coffin on the ground;
An' 'e'll swing in 'arf a minute for a sneakin' shootin' hound --
O they're hangin' Danny Deever in the mornin'!

"'Is cot was right-'and cot to mine", said Files-on-Parade.
"'E's sleepin' out an' far to-night", the Colour-Sergeant said.
"I've drunk 'is beer a score o' times", said Files-on-Parade.
"'E's drinkin' bitter beer alone", the Colour-Sergeant said.
They are hangin' Danny Deever, you must mark 'im to 'is place,
For 'e shot a comrade sleepin' -- you must look 'im in the face;
Nine 'undred of 'is county an' the regiment's disgrace,
While they're hangin' Danny Deever in the mornin'.

"What's that so black agin' the sun?" said Files-on-Parade.
"It's Danny fightin' 'ard for life", the Colour-Sergeant said.
"What's that that whimpers over'ead?" said Files-on-Parade.
"It's Danny's soul that's passin' now", the Colour-Sergeant said.
For they're done with Danny Deever, you can 'ear the quickstep play,
The regiment's in column, an' they're marchin' us away;
Ho! the young recruits are shakin', an' they'll want their beer to-day,
After hangin' Danny Deever in the mornin'.


...and that's way more than you expected me to say, isn't it?  But it isn't a fraction of the tale of Kipling's works, or of his life...and not a patch on why I so admire him, his work, and his life.

(Now, go read something!)