Invictus

Out of the night that covers me,
Black as the Pit from pole to pole,
I thank whatever gods may be
For my unconquerable soul.

In the fell clutch of circumstance
I have not winced nor cried aloud.
Under the bludgeonings of chance
My head is bloody, but unbowed.

Beyond this place of wrath and tears
Looms but the Horror of the shade,
And yet the menace of the years
Finds, and shall find, me unafraid.

It matters not how strait the gate,
How charged with punishments the scroll.
I am the master of my fate:
I am the captain of my soul.

by William Ernest Henley

Comments (7)

Yes, Kipling was a racist but merely reflecting the European attitudes of the time: : Consider Gunga Din: ..them black faced crew... He was white, clear white inside or Fuzzy Wuzzy: You're a poor beknighted heathen... What the Brits were doing in India, the Dutch were doing in Indonesia, the Belgians in Africa (much worse) etc. Just be glad that era is over.
Francis Lynch sucks Donkey Balls.
You, Francis Lynch, inhabit a place normally reserved for the highest fuckwittery.
Kipling was a racist and a bigot. Fuck him and his poetry.
John Sims, Mandalay itself is in Burma, east of what was British India at the time. More than half of Burma's west border is at the Bay of Bengal, directly east of India, which was also British territory. Kipling was about 19 or 20 in 1885 - and most likely a soldier - when the third and final Anglo-Burmese war settled Burma as a province of British India. It seems to me that later in life, while in London, he was recalling this woman that he encountered - and I assume took as a lover during his earlier Burma days. There was at some point a time when Burma regained it's independence from Britain and that explains his remark that there were no more ships going back to Burma. As we all do from time to time, I think Kipling was recalling his fondness for an early love and reminiscing, wishing he could go back and experience it all over again. Although the rest of us don't do it quite as elegantly as Kipling reveals.... But a rose is a rose by any name, and the simultaneous joy and pain of such memories are incredibly breath taking to us all. I really enjoy how Kipling attempted to throw a cockney accent to this poem...
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