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2 3 76 / STEVIE SMITH
Whe n along comes the Person from Porlock An d takes the blame for it.
It was not right, it was wrong,
But often we all do wrong.
May we inquire the name of the Person from Porlock? Why , Porson, didn't you know? He lived at the bottom of Porlock Hill So had a long way to go,
He wasn't muc h in the social sense Though his grandmother was a Warlock, On e of the Ruthlandshire ones I fancy An d nothing to do with Porlock.
An d he lived at the bottom of the hill as I said And had a cat named Flo, And had a cat named Flo.
I long for the Person from Porlock To bring my thoughts to an end, I am becoming impatient to see him 1 think of hi m as a friend,
Often I look out of the window Often I run to the gate I think, He will come this evening, I think it is rather late.
I am hungry to be interrupted Forever and ever amen O Person from Porlock come quickly An d bring my thoughts to an end.
I felicitate the people who have a Person from Porlock To break up everything and throw it away Because then there will be nothing to keep them An d they need not stay.
Why do they grumble so much? He comes like a benison They should be glad he has not forgotten them They might have had to go on.
These thoughts are depressing I know. They are depressing, I wish I was more cheerful, it is more pleasant, Also it is a duty, we should smile as well as submitting To the purpose of One Above who is experimenting
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PRETTY / 2377
50 With various mixtures of human character which goes best, All is interesting for him it is exciting, but not for us. There I go again, Smile, smile, and get some work to do Then you will be practically unconscious without positively having to go.
1962
Pretty
Why is the word pretty so underrated? In November the leaf is pretty when it falls The stream grows deep in the woods after rain And in the pretty pool the pike stalks
5 He stalks his prey, and this is pretty too, The prey escapes with an underwater flash But not for long, the great fish has him now The pike is a fish who always has his prey
And this is pretty. The water rat is pretty
10 His paws are not webbed, he cannot shut his nostrils As the otter can and the beaver, he is torn between The land and water, Not 'torn,' he does not mind.
The owl hunts in the evening and it is pretty The lake water below him rustles with ice 15 There is frost coming from the ground, in the air mist All this is pretty, it could not be prettier.
Yes, it could always be prettier, the eye abashes It is becoming an eye that cannot see enough, Out of the wood the eye climbs. This is prettier
20 A field in the evening, tilting up.
The field tilts to the sky. Though it is late The sky is lighter than the hill field All this looks easy but really it is extraordinary Well, it is extraordinary to be so pretty.
25 And it is careless, and that is always pretty This field, this owl, this pike, this pool are careless, As Nature is always careless and indifferent Who sees, who steps, means nothing, and this is pretty.
So a person can come along like a thief?pretty!?
30 Stealing a look, pinching the sound and feel, Lick the icicle broken from the bank And still say nothing at all, only cry pretty.
Cry pretty, pretty, pretty and you'll be able Very soon not even to cry pretty
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237 8 / GEORGE ORWELL
35 An d so be delivered entirely from humanity This is prettiest of all, it is very pretty.
1966
GEORGE ORWELL 1903-1950
'George Orwell' was the pseudonym of Eric Blair, who was born in the village of Motihari in Bengal, India, where his father was a British civil servant. He was sent to private school in England and won a scholarship to Eton, the foremost 'public school' (i.e., private boarding school) in the country. At these schools he became conscious of the difference between his own background and the wealthy backgrounds of many of his schoolmates. On leaving school he joined the Imperial Police in Burma (both Burma?now called Myanmar?and India were then still part of the British Empire). His service in Burma from 1922 to 1927 produced a sense of guilt about British colonialism and a feeling that he had to make some personal expiation for it. This he would later do with an anticolonial novel, Burmese Days (1934), and essays such as 'Shooting an Elephant' (1936), which subordinates lingering colonial
