It’s a little known fact
that, shortly after graduating, WH Auden worked in Oxford University’s Research
Office. Whilst he was there he had to deal with various strategic policies,
concordats and memoranda of understanding. He became increasingly frustrated
with these, and vented this irritation in an early draft of one of his most
famous poems, ‘O Tell Me the Truth about Love’. In the week in which
Universities UK announced its ‘Concordat to Support Research Integrity’, and LERU issued a paper on gender in universities, it’s worth
reprinting this forgotten masterpiece.
O Tell Me the Truth about
Concordats
Some say concordats show
the way
They move the question on.
But others scoff and turn
away
And say that they’re all
wrong.
And when I asked the
bureaucrat
Who looked as if he knew,
His boss got very cross indeed,
And said it wouldn't do.
Who looked as if he knew,
His boss got very cross indeed,
And said it wouldn't do.
What are these
words, these shiny words,
That trumpet and aspire?
That build imagined
pleasure domes
With proselyte desire?
And when you try to pin them
down
They flit like darkling
bats
And float like smoke above
the town
O tell me the truth about
concordats.
At meetings they’re referred
to
And duly noted down
But all around the table
There’s academic frowns.
They struggle with their purpose,
They struggle with their sense.
They try to take some action
For fear of seeming dense.
Do they shout like manifestos?
Or rattle like shopping lists?
Could one give a first-rate imitation
If one’s somewhat Brahms and Liszt?
Do they whisper in your ear,
Or demand: ‘do this, do that!’
Do they need your full attention?
O tell me the truth about concordats.
I tried to find the meaning
I searched the halls and quads.
And some who saw me whispered:
‘He’s a miserable sod’.
But still I found no answer
The emptiness remained.
These words so drained of meaning
A vacant picture frame.
Do they make a real difference?
Do they change the way we think?
Or are we better at the races,
Or fiddling with string?
Like shadow boxers sparring
Or like Schrodinger’s cat
They’re blithe and insubstantial
O tell me the truth about concordats.
As I’m sleeping in my bedsit
A nightmare tiptoes in:
A giant, laughing concordat
That affirms and agrees and spins.
It towers high above me -
But disappears, just like that -
Leaving no one any wiser
O tell me the truth about concordats.
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