My dear boy,
I stumbled upon one of Rudyard Kipling’s poems, read by Sir Michael Caine, not one of those Hollywood actors I love but don’t know by name. John Beecroft, in an introduction piece on December 30, 1955, explains that Rudyard was the name of a lake where his parents first met. Wouldn’t this be typical of a curator of a museum? I should add that his grandfathers were Methodist ministers. Anyway, it set me off on the quest for his poems and stories. Although I lean towards Robert Frost. Point of note: as I write this, I am still getting acquainted with Rudyard Kipling.
Robert Frost. Maybe it is something about his name; it is cold. Or the memories his name brings. You see, the African American Literature class will not be complete without him. It’s not every day you get to see Dr. Nathaniel Ojima read out a poem. More so, Professor Mogu came alive in this class, especially when he discussed the chariot in Wallace Willis’ “Swing Low, Sweet Chariot” as it made its way to heaven. One could have sworn he levitated as he mimicked the chariot on its way skywards.
By the way, discussing The Great Gatsby was such a thrill. (Leonardo DiCaprio plays Jay Gatsby in the movie.) Robert Frost did not write that, but the last two lines of the only poem of his I had applied myself to sum up my life.
And that has made all the difference.
It’s then obvious that the latter fans the flames of my affection.
“What poem is this?” you ask. If.
My favourite stanza is stanza 3, and this is a difficult choice given that “If” is powerful and alluring in the manner that not to love it is to not have read it. The first four lines say:
Son, no one cares about how much pain you have suffered, the near misses, nor the disadvantages afforded you by your birth. Initially, you may receive sympathy from people, which you do not need, which is inadvertently followed by cussing and disdain.
Hence, I shall close with this: today is only but a piece of tomorrow. “Tomorrow never comes” is a saying most apt. Therefore, whatever situation you find yourself in is your best season; do the most and die empty, bearing in mind that fortune favours the bold. All the best, son!
Love,
Dad.
