Auden's Sunday Best

Too long for a twitter post (c'mon, "tweet" is lame) and too not-interesting for a status update, this undernourished post has thus been dumped unceremoniously here. Also it's about poetry. Yeah.

I get to read W.H. Auden in a module next semester. I'm actually quite excited. You can thank Christopher Hitchens for that. Anywho, there's one poem of his that I particularly like, so here it is:

"Stop all the clocks, cut off the telephone

Prevent the dog from barking with a juicy bone.

Silence the pianos and with muffled drum,

Bring out the coffin...let the mourners come.

Let aeroplanes circle, moaning overhead,

Scribbling on the sky the message: He is Dead.

Put crepe bows 'round the necks of public doves,

Let traffic policemen wear black, cotton gloves.

He was my North, my South, my East, my West.

My working week and my Sunday rest.

My noon, my midnight, my talk, my song,

I thought love would last forever: I was wrong.

The stars are not wanted now, put out every one.

Pack up the moon and dismantle the sun.

Pour out the ocean and sweep up the wood,
For nothing now can ever come to any good." 

Lovely, in't it? Because my reading skills are surprisingly iffy for someone that studies literature at university, I've always read the line in the third stanza as 'My working week and my Sunday best'. It was with dismay that I found out otherwise, not because I felt illiterate, but because I actually prefer my version. I prefer the contrast of the weekly toil - the drudgery, the mundanity - with getting suited and booted and being at one's best. 'Rest' feels apathetic in comparison, lacking in purpose and decisiveness. 'Sunday best' even maintains the religious imagery - doesn't that tradition stem from looking nice for church?

S'all today, folks.