A Letter To My Aunt

To you， my aunt， who would explore

　　The literary Chankley Bore，

　　The paths are hard， for you are not

　　A literary Hottentot

　　But just a kind and cultured dame¹

　　Who knows not Eliot （to her shame）.

　　Fie on you， aunt， that you should see

　　No genius in David G.，

　　No elemental form and sound

　　In T.S.E. and Ezra Pound.

　　Fie on you， aunt！ I'll show you how

　　To elevate your middle brow，

　　And how to scale and see the sights

　　From modernist Parnassian heights.

　　First buy a hat， no Paris model

　　But one the Swiss wear when they yodel，

　　A bowler² thing with one or two

　　Feathers to conceal³ the view；

　　And then in sandals walk the street

　　（All modern painters use their feet

　　For painting， on their canvas strips，

　　Their wives or mothers， minus hips⁴）.

　　Perhaps it would be best if you

　　Created something very new，

　　A dirty novel done in Erse

　　Or written backwards⁵ in Welsh verse，

　　Or paintings on the backs of vests，

　　Or Sanskrit psalms⁶ on lepers' chests.

　　But if this proved imposs-i-ble

　　Perhaps it would be just as well，

　　For you could then write what you please，

　　And modern verse is done with ease.

　　Do not forget that 'limpet' rhymes

　　With 'strumpet' in these troubled times，

　　And commas are the worst of crimes；

　　Few understand the works of Cummings，

　　And few James Joyce's mental slummings，

　　And few young Auden's coded chatter⁷；

　　But then it is the few that matter.

　　Never be lucid⁸， never state，

　　If you would be regarded great，

　　The simplest thought or sentiment，

　　（For thought， we know， is decadent⁹）；

　　Never omit such vital words

　　As belly¹⁰， genitals and ——，

　　For these are things that play a part

　　（And what a part） in all good art.

　　Remember this： each rose is wormy，

　　And every lovely woman's germy；

　　Remember this： that love depends

　　On how the Gallic letter bends；

　　Remember， too， that life is hell

　　And even heaven has a smell

　　Of putrefying angels who

　　Make deadly whoopee in the blue.

　　These things remembered， what can stop

　　A poet going to the top？

　　A final word： before you start

　　The convulsions of your art，

　　Remove your brains， take out your heart；

　　Minus these curses， you can be

　　A genius like David G.

　　Take courage， aunt， and send your stuff

　　To Geoffrey Grigson with my luff，

　　And may I yet live to admire

　　How well your poems light the fire.

　　（Unknown Book）