Rudyard Kipling Thread

No thanks OP, I don't eat fish

I watched the first five minutes and I have to say it's shaping up to be a very good talk. I've bookmarked it for when I can give the Bowden the focus he deserves. Thank you, user.

It's strange how different and yet so similar things are today. One thing that has definitely changed is the giving freely of practical advice through art such as this. No "follow your dreams" rubbish there, and even when he does touch upon such themes, as in - the practicality still remains.

Thanks for the bump, though. I remember my grandfather reading Kipling to me as a child and my cousin making the same joke you did.

That's because anyone not killing themselves for being white is the embodiment of racism.

Bitching about it constantly is atonement for that original sin. It's just their own religion of self-hatred.

I'm suspicious about the authenticity of this poem. I can't find a trace of it in Kipling's actual body of work, only through WN sites. What collection is it claimed to be from?

Kipling was above all a settler and imperialist: the kind of barely civilized man needed to maintain and expand the border of civilization. Thus it is no surprise that he loved a little rough and tumble in his life and admired the simple. Darwinian honesty of the savage folk; much like a matron comes to admire in some perverse way the obvious sociopathy of young children.

For a clearer understanding I recommend reading his real pro-white poem: "The White Man's Burden"

I can't find any reference to it outside of Right-leaning media, either. I've looked in a supposedly complete collection of his work and it is absent. There is another poem about Saxons, though it's somewhat different in tone. That can be found here:

kiplingsociety.co.uk/poems_normansaxon.htm

Also note the Wrath poem's absence from that site's list of his works. I thought it very odd his views seemed so conflicted, and it seems the most simple answer may be right. Thank you for shedding some light on that for me, user.

On the subject of your second reply, the Darwinism argument does make a lot more sense than that of the 'Champion of the White Race' one. Thank you, user. I think you've given me the insight I was hoping to find when I started this thread.

The 'wrath of the awakened saxon' is definitely Kipling. The poem is correctly entitled "The Beginnings" and was part of a short horror story he published in 1915 entitled "Mary Postgate".

One of my favourites:

"The Land"
When Julius Fabricius, Sub-Prefect of the Weald,
In the days of Diocletian owned our Lower River-field,
He called to him Hobdenius — a Briton of the Clay,
Saying: "What about that River-piece for layin' in to hay?"

And the aged Hobden answered: "I remember as a lad
My father told your father that she wanted dreenin' bad.
An' the more that you neglect her the less you'll get her clean.
Have it jest as you've a mind to, but, if I was you, I'd dreen."

So they drained it long and crossways in the lavish Roman style —
Still we find among the river-drift their flakes of ancient tile,
And in drouthy middle August, when the bones of meadows show,
We can trace the lines they followed sixteen hundred years ago.

Then Julius Fabricius died as even Prefects do,
And after certain centuries, Imperial Rome died too.
Then did robbers enter Britain from across the Northern main
And our Lower River-field was won by Ogier the Dane.

Well could Ogier work his war-boat — well could Ogier wield his brand —
Much he knew of foaming waters — not so much of farming land.
So he called to him a Hobden of the old unaltered blood,
Saying: "What about that River-piece; she doesn't look no good?"

And that aged Hobden answered "'Tain't for me to interfere,
But I've known that bit o' meadow now for five and fifty year.
Have it jest as you've a mind to, but I've proved it time on time,
If you want to change her nature you have got to give her lime!"

Ogier sent his wains to Lewes, twenty hours' solemn walk,
And drew back great abundance of the cool, grey, healing chalk.
And old Hobden spread it broadcast, never heeding what was in 't, —
Which is why in cleaning ditches, now and then we find a flint.

Ogier died. His sons grew English — Anglo-Saxon was their name —
Till out of blossomed Normandy another pirate came;
For Duke William conquered England and divided with his men,
And our Lower River-field he gave to William of Warenne.

But the Brook (you know her habit) rose one rainy autumn night
And tore down sodden flitches of the bank to left and right.
So, said William to his Bailiff as they rode their dripping rounds:
"Hob, what about that River-bit — the Brook's got up no bounds?"

And that aged Hobden answered: "'Tain't my business to advise,
But ye might ha' known 'twould happen from the way the valley lies.
Where ye can't hold back the water you must try and save the sile.
Hev it jest as you've a mind to, but, if I was you, I'd spile!"

They spiled along the water-course with trunks of willow-trees,
And planks of elms behind 'em and immortal oaken knees.
And when the spates of Autumn whirl the gravel-beds away
You can see their faithful fragments, iron-hard in iron clay.

… …… … … …

Georgii Quinti Anno Sexto, I, who own the River-field,
Am fortified with title-deeds, attested, signed and sealed,
Guaranteeing me, my assigns, my executors and heirs
All sorts of powers and profits which — are neither mine nor theirs.

I have rights of chase and warren, as my dignity requires.
I can fish — but Hobden tickles. I can shoot — but Hobden wires.
I repair, but he reopens, certain gaps which, men allege,
Have been used by every Hobden since a Hobden swapped a hedge.

Shall I dog his morning progress o'er the track-betraying dew?
Demand his dinner-basket into which my pheasant flew?
Confiscate his evening faggot under which my conies ran,
And summons him to judgment? I would sooner summons Pan.

His dead are in the churchyard — thirty generations laid.
Their names were old in history when Domesday Book was made;
And the passion and the piety and prowess of his line
Have seeded, rooted, fruited in some land the Law calls mine.

Not for any beast that burrows, not for any bird that flies,
Would I lose his large sound council, miss his keen amending eyes.
He is bailiff, woodman, wheelwright, field-surveyor, engineer,
And if flagrantly a poacher — 'tain't for me to interfere.

"Hob, what about that River-bit?" I turn to him again,
With Fabricius and Ogier and William of Warenne.
"Hev it jest as you've a mind to, but" — and here he takes command.
For whoever pays the taxes old Mus' Hobden owns the land.

Interesting, user. Is there a context for the poem within the framework of the narrative? And thanks for bringing it to my attention.

Really recommend this BBC movie. I'm no expert on Kipling but it seems he was a fiercely patriotic man who would go to the end of the earth for England and the Empire. Poems like "The white mans burden" and "the stranger" would certainly label him a vile racist by modern standards, but I don't see him as racist at all, he would have wanted to keep England English but he had no hate for the other races as they existed in their own territories of the Empire. Quite a rational view that I'm sure most Europeans took for granted back in the day.

The Children's Song

Land of our Birth, we pledge to thee
Our love and toil in the years to be;
When we are grown and take our place
As men and women with our race.

Father in Heaven who lovest all,
Oh, help Thy children when they call;
That they may build from age to age
An undefiled heritage.

Teach us to bear the yoke in youth,
With steadfastness and careful truth;
That, in our time, Thy Grace may give
The Truth whereby the Nations live.

Teach us to rule ourselves alway,
Controlled and cleanly night and day;
That we may bring, if need arise,
No maimed or worthless sacrifice.

Teach us to look in all our ends
On Thee for judge, and not our friends;
That we, with Thee, may walk uncowed
By fear or favour of the crowd.

Teach us the Strength that cannot seek,
By deed or thought, to hurt the weak;
That, under Thee, we may possess
Man's strength to comfort man's distress.

Teach us Delight in simple things,
And Mirth that has no bitter springs;
Forgiveness free of evil done,
And Love to all men 'neath the sun!

Land of our Birth, our faith, our pride,
For whose dear sake our fathers died;
Oh, Motherland, we pledge to thee
Head, heart and hand through the years to be!

Cold Iron

Gold is for the mistress – silver for the maid –
Copper for the craftsman cunning at his trade."
"Good!" said the Baron, sitting in his hall,
"But Iron – Cold Iron – is master of them all."

So he made rebellion 'gainst the King his liege,
Camped before his citadel and summoned it to siege.
"Nay!" said the cannoneer on the castle wall,
"But Iron – Cold Iron – shall be master of you all!"

Woe for the Baron and his knights so strong,
When the cruel cannon-balls laid 'em all along;
He was taken prisoner, he was cast in thrall,
And Iron – Cold Iron – was master of it all!

Yet his King spake kindly (ah, how kind a Lord!)
"What if I release thee now and give thee back thy sword?"
"Nay!" said the Baron, "mock not at my fall,
For Iron – Cold Iron – is master of men all."

"Tears are for the craven, prayers are for the clown –
Halters for the silly neck that cannot keep a crown."
"As my loss is grievous, so my hope is small,
For Iron – Cold Iron – must be master of men all!"

Yet his King made answer (few such Kings there be!)
"Here is Bread and here is Wine – sit and sup with me.
Eat and drink in Mary's Name, the whiles I do recall
How Iron – Cold Iron – can be master of men all!"

He took the Wine and blessed it. He blessed and brake the Bread.
With His own Hands He served Them, and presently He said:
"See! These Hands they pierced with nails, outside My city wall,
Show Iron – Cold Iron – to be master of men all."

"Wounds are for the desperate, blows are for the strong.
Balm and oil for weary hearts all cut and bruised with wrong.
I forgive thy treason – I redeem thy fall –
For Iron – Cold Iron – must be master of men all!"

"Crowns are for the valiant – sceptres for the bold!
Thrones and powers for mighty men who dare to take and hold!"
"Nay!" said the Baron, kneeling in his hall,
"But Iron – Cold Iron – is master of men all!
Iron out of Calvary is master of men all!"

As an infantry veteran and Memorial Day coming soon I have to post 'Tommy':

I went into a public-'ouse to get a pint o' beer,
The publican 'e up an' sez, "We serve no red-coats here."
The girls be'ind the bar they laughed an' giggled fit to die,
I outs into the street again an' to myself sez I:
O it's Tommy this, an' Tommy that, an' "Tommy, go away";
But it's "Thank you, Mister Atkins", when the band begins to play,
The band begins to play, my boys, the band begins to play,
O it's "Thank you, Mister Atkins", when the band begins to play.

I went into a theatre as sober as could be,
They gave a drunk civilian room, but 'adn't none for me;
They sent me to the gallery or round the music-'alls,
But when it comes to fightin', Lord! they'll shove me in the stalls!
For it's Tommy this, an' Tommy that, an' "Tommy, wait outside";
But it's "Special train for Atkins" when the trooper's on the tide,
The troopship's on the tide, my boys, the troopship's on the tide,
O it's "Special train for Atkins" when the trooper's on the tide.

Yes, makin' mock o' uniforms that guard you while you sleep
Is cheaper than them uniforms, an' they're starvation cheap;
An' hustlin' drunken soldiers when they're goin' large a bit
Is five times better business than paradin' in full kit.
Then it's Tommy this, an' Tommy that, an' "Tommy, 'ow's yer soul?"
But it's "Thin red line of 'eroes" when the drums begin to roll,
The drums begin to roll, my boys, the drums begin to roll,
O it's "Thin red line of 'eroes" when the drums begin to roll.

We aren't no thin red 'eroes, nor we aren't no blackguards too,
But single men in barricks, most remarkable like you;
An' if sometimes our conduck isn't all your fancy paints,
Why, single men in barricks don't grow into plaster saints;
While it's Tommy this, an' Tommy that, an' "Tommy, fall be'ind",
But it's "Please to walk in front, sir", when there's trouble in the wind,
There's trouble in the wind, my boys, there's trouble in the wind,
O it's "Please to walk in front, sir", when there's trouble in the wind.

You talk o' better food for us, an' schools, an' fires, an' all:
We'll wait for extry rations if you treat us rational.
Don't mess about the cook-room slops, but prove it to our face
The Widow's Uniform is not the soldier-man's disgrace.
For it's Tommy this, an' Tommy that, an' "Chuck him out, the brute!"
But it's "Saviour of 'is country" when the guns begin to shoot;
An' it's Tommy this, an' Tommy that, an' anything you please;
An' Tommy ain't a bloomin' fool – you bet that Tommy sees!

Kipling had a habit of adding short poems to the end of his stories as an envoi or commentary on the preceding tale. He did it most famously in "The Jungle Book" ('Law of the Jungle', etc.), and "Just So Stories" ('Just-So Verses'), but you also see the practise in "Plain Tales from the Hills" and "Puck of Pook's Hill".

On The Creation Of Niggers

When, long ago, the gods created Earth
In Jove's fair image Man was shaped at birth.
The beasts for lesser parts were next designed;
Yet were they too remote from humankind.
To fill the gap, and join the rest to Man,
Th'Olympian host conceiv'd a clever plan.
A beast they wrought, in semi-human figure,
Filled it with vice, and called the thing a Nigger.

Thats lovecraft, but i think Kipling would probably have agreed.

...

I think I cried a little.

I was initially suspicious too. It's been shoahed (what are the odds?) from most places, you have to search for it by it's proper name. It's erroneously named "The Wrath of the Awakened Saxon" by many Edgeosphere sites, but the real name is "The Beginnings".

bartleby.com/364/390.html

ebooks.adelaide.edu.au/k/kipling/rudyard/diversity/chapter28.html

You should be able to find it in "A Diversity of Creatures".

The reason I was wary about it was that the poem seems to have marched straight out of skinhead propaganda in the seventies. It's almost a synopsis of "The Turner Diaries". But no, it's legit, if hard to find.

*its proper name.

It's also hard to find because it's always misquoted. It's not "When the Saxon learned to hate", but rather "When the English learned to hate."

Ironically, at the time it was penned, it was probably written from an anti-German sentiment.

The altered version replaces English with Saxon in what I assume was a way to make it more useful for WN purposes by making it more general. When you look around places where it was posted there's usually a few comments "I can't find this anywhere" "is this a real kipling poem"

Interesting, I had read Mary Postgate before, but had no idea that poem was attached.

here is the full text of Mary Postgate for the curious:
victorianweb.org/authors/kipling/postgate.html

see vid related

A simple poem but effective.
youtube.com/watch?v=kUxD8PJmotk

BOOTS BOOTS BOOTS BOOTS BOOTS BOOTS BOOTS BOOTS BOOTS BOOTS BOOTS BOOTS BOOTS BOOTS BOOTS BOOTS BOOTS BOOTS BOOTS BOOTS BOOTS BOOTS BOOTS BOOTS BOOTS BOOTS BOOTS BOOTS BOOTS BOOTS BOOTS BOOTS BOOTS BOOTS BOOTS BOOTS BOOTS BOOTS BOOTS BOOTS BOOTS BOOTS BOOTS BOOTS BOOTS BOOTS BOOTS BOOTS BOOTS BOOTS BOOTS BOOTS BOOTS BOOTS BOOTS BOOTS BOOTS BOOTS BOOTS BOOTS BOOTS BOOTS BOOTS BOOTS BOOTS BOOTS BOOTS BOOTS BOOTS BOOTS BOOTS BOOTS BOOTS BOOTS BOOTS BOOTS BOOTS BOOTS BOOTS BOOTS BOOTS BOOTS BOOTS BOOTS BOOTS BOOTS BOOTS BOOTS BOOTS BOOTS BOOTS BOOTS BOOTS BOOTS BOOTS BOOTS BOOTS BOOTS BOOTS BOOTS BOOTS BOOTS BOOTS BOOTS BOOTS BOOTS BOOTS BOOTS BOOTS BOOTS BOOTS BOOTS BOOTS BOOTS BOOTS BOOTS BOOTS BOOTS BOOTS BOOTS BOOTS BOOTS BOOTS BOOTS BOOTS BOOTS BOOTS BOOTS BOOTS BOOTS BOOTS BOOTS BOOTS BOOTS BOOTS BOOTS BOOTS BOOTS BOOTS BOOTS BOOTS BOOTS BOOTS BOOTS BOOTS BOOTS BOOTS BOOTS BOOTS BOOTS

The cry of hosts ye humour
(Ah slowly !) towards the light:-
"Why brought ye us from bondage,
"Our loved Egyptian night ?"

Kipling confirmed for follower of Kek

Why do people complain that Disney is fucking up the new Jungle Book, when it is actually the source material itself that is fucked?

I mean, why did Kipling make the hero a little Indian boy?

If Kipling was really pro-White, why not make the protagonist of the Jungle Book a white British child (like Tarzan)?

I see Holla Forums say that the original animated Disney film was redpilled or something, but how can that be when we are supposed to identify with a little brown kid?

My kids can't even watch the original animated Jungle Book because I don't want them admiring a shitskin.

GODS OF THE COPYBOOK HEADINGS

Describes SJWry and its results perfectly.

fuck you for ignoring me

memorial day bump tbh

...

This poster (who is totally not me) raises some great points that the community should address.

Love "The Gods of the Copybook Headings". Always remember, anons: over 80% of the problems in the world arise from ignoring what we are taught in our earliest years.

and fuck you also

So what about it Holla Forums? If Rudyard Kipling was really such a White nationalist, why did he make the hero of his book a little brown Indian boy?

Why shouldnt he?
Always writing from your own perspective is boring.

Alright, I'd like to hear from a White person now.

ROBINSON JEFFERS!

I'm not too familiar with him, but he was definitely a man of the Right. There is a talk by Bowden on him here youtube.com/watch?v=xDqJqWzm8Hw and a podcast by Manifest Destiny which I highly recommend here: radio.therightstuff.biz/2016/04/28/manifest-destiny-robinson-jeffers/

-

The Bloody Sire.

It is not bad. Let them play.
Let the guns bark and the bombing-plane
Speak his prodigious blasphemies.
It is not bad, it is high time,
Stark violence is still the sire of all the world’s values.

What but the wolf’s tooth whittled so fine
The fleet limbs of the antelope?
What but fear winged the birds, and hunger
Jewelled with such eyes the great goshawk’s head?
Violence has been the sire of all the world’s values.

Who would remember Helen’s face
Lacking the terrible halo of spears?
Who formed Christ but Herod and Caesar,
The cruel and bloody victories of Caesar?
Violence, the bloody sire of all the world’s values.

Never weep, let them play,
Old violence is not too old to beget new values.

So what you're saying is that having all-white protagonists is boring? We need "diversity" in books to spice them up, right?

You think it is totally ok for little white children to read books with non-white protagonists? You are such a transparent Jew.

So nobody on here has any answer as to why a man who claimed that he preferred those of his own race wrote a book with a brown Indian as the protagonist, when he could have easily written it with a white British child as the protagonist?

A good video for the stranger

Step your shitposting up faggot..

The world was young, the mountains green
No stain yet on the moon was seen
No word was laid on stream or stone
When Durin woke and walked alone
He named the nameless hills and dwells
He drank from yet untasted wells
He stooped and looked in Mirrormere
And saw a crown of stars appear
As gems upon a silver thread
Above the shadow of his head

The was fair, the mountains tall
In Elder Days, before the fall
Of might kings in Nargothrond
And Gondolin, who now beyond
The Western Seas have passed away
The world was fair in Durin's day

A king he was on carven throne
In many pillared halls of stone
With golden roof and silver floor
And runes of power upon the door
The light sun and star and moon
In shining lamps of crystal hewn
Undimmed by cloud or shade of night
There shone forever, fair and bright

There hammer on the anvil smote
There chisel clove, and graver wrote
There forged was blade, and bound was hilt
There delver mined the mason built.
There beryl, pearl and opal pale
And metal wrought like fishes mail
Buckler and corset, axe and sword
And shining spears were laid in horde.

Unwearied then were Durin's Folk
Beneath the mountain music woke
The harpers harped, the minstrels sang
And at the gates the trumpets rang

The world is grey, the mountains old
The forge's fire is ashen cold
No harper harps, no hammer falls
The darkness dwells in Durin halls
A shadow lies upon his tomb
In Moria, in Khazad-dûm
But still the sunken stars appear
In dark and windless Mirrormere
There lies is crown in water deep
Till Durin wakes again from sleep

Here I sit
My ass a flex'n
Giving birth
To another Texan

Get fucked you traitorous cowards.

...

De Wet he is mounted, he rides up the street
The English skedaddle an A1 retreat!
And the commander swore: They've got through the net
That's been spread with such care for Christiaan De Wet.

There are hills beyond Winburg and Boers on each hill
Sufficient to thwart ten generals' skill
There are stout-hearted burghers 10,000 men set
On following the Mausers of Christiaan De Wet.

Then away to the hills, to the veld, to the rocks
Ere we own a usurper we'll crouch with the fox
And tremble false Jingoes amidst all your glee
Ye have not seen the last of my Mausers and me!

It really upsets me that Holla Forums doesn't want to answer my sincere question here. Yes, I phrased it in a funny way (I like humor). But I seriously want to know: why would Kipling make a brown Indian boy the protagonist of his novel, when he could have easily made it a white British child? That seems a little inconsistent with his racial beliefs.

"The Stranger" recited by William Luther Pierce.

Now that's a good poem.

I really like his poem The Gods of the Copybook Headings, especially these lines:

As it will be in the future, it was at the birth of Man
There are only four things certain since Social Progress began.
That the Dog returns to his Vomit and the Sow returns to her Mire,
And the burnt Fool's bandaged finger goes wabbling back to the Fire;

And that after this is accomplished, and the brave new world begins
When all men are paid for existing and no man must pay for his sins,
As surely as Water will wet us, as surely as Fire will burn,
The Gods of the Copybook Headings with terror and slaughter return!