Surely you have heard about the poem ‘If’ by Rudyard Kipling.
I came across this poem many years ago and at times when my mind wonders, parts of the poem appear in my head – like a ghost from times gone by. Hauntingly filled with joy, with sadness, with recollection and remembrance of things long past.
The poem itself, heralded as a masterpiece by some, total rubbish by others and to the remainder, indifference.
To me, it’s simply brilliant. But who am I to tell you. If you’ve never come across it before, I have included a version I found off on the net at the end of this entry.
How the poem sticks to me is like this – having been in business at one point in my ‘illustrious but nothing-to-show-for’ career, one verse of the poem constantly drifts through my mind:
“If you can make one heap of all your winnings And risk it on one turn of pitch-and-toss, And lose, and start again at your beginnings And never breathe a word about your loss;”
Indeed, at one point in my life I made one heap of all my winnings. They were not easy winnings, working long and tough hours for many a year. Absorbing the pressure like a sponge geared towards self destruction.
Finally I left that business to start my own. All of my hard earned cash put aside, ‘gambled’ on that one turn of pitch-and-toss. I lost.
It took me some time to get back on my feet. The blow was horrendous! Imagine losing everything. Now imagine losing everything you sacrificed everything else for. Now imagine the disappointment you are to your dependants, moving them forcefully from a place of comfort and security to living on a budget on the edge of your margins. Plus a kick or two in the gut, that’s about how I felt at the time,
I started over, as the poem says, at my beginnings. For a very long time, I was bitter at the loss. I felt cheated. I lost faith in others, in everything.
It was at this point that the poem, or rather its haunting words, came back to me. Of all the verses, the one above was one of the few that echoed loudly in my head – like it was there the whole time. That it never left.
Though time, I learned to accept my share of blame for the loss. I learned to assign blame to others and not hope for retribution. I am more at peace now. Broke, but at peace.
See how difficult it is not to breathe a word about your loss? I’m still trying …
I came across this poem many years ago and at times when my mind wonders, parts of the poem appear in my head – like a ghost from times gone by. Hauntingly filled with joy, with sadness, with recollection and remembrance of things long past.
The poem itself, heralded as a masterpiece by some, total rubbish by others and to the remainder, indifference.
To me, it’s simply brilliant. But who am I to tell you. If you’ve never come across it before, I have included a version I found off on the net at the end of this entry.
How the poem sticks to me is like this – having been in business at one point in my ‘illustrious but nothing-to-show-for’ career, one verse of the poem constantly drifts through my mind:
“If you can make one heap of all your winnings And risk it on one turn of pitch-and-toss, And lose, and start again at your beginnings And never breathe a word about your loss;”
Indeed, at one point in my life I made one heap of all my winnings. They were not easy winnings, working long and tough hours for many a year. Absorbing the pressure like a sponge geared towards self destruction.
Finally I left that business to start my own. All of my hard earned cash put aside, ‘gambled’ on that one turn of pitch-and-toss. I lost.
It took me some time to get back on my feet. The blow was horrendous! Imagine losing everything. Now imagine losing everything you sacrificed everything else for. Now imagine the disappointment you are to your dependants, moving them forcefully from a place of comfort and security to living on a budget on the edge of your margins. Plus a kick or two in the gut, that’s about how I felt at the time,
I started over, as the poem says, at my beginnings. For a very long time, I was bitter at the loss. I felt cheated. I lost faith in others, in everything.
It was at this point that the poem, or rather its haunting words, came back to me. Of all the verses, the one above was one of the few that echoed loudly in my head – like it was there the whole time. That it never left.
Though time, I learned to accept my share of blame for the loss. I learned to assign blame to others and not hope for retribution. I am more at peace now. Broke, but at peace.
See how difficult it is not to breathe a word about your loss? I’m still trying …
If
If you can keep your head when all about you Are losing theirs and blaming it on you;
If you can trust yourself when all men doubt you, But make allowance for their doubting too;
If you can wait and not be tired by waiting, Or, being lied about, don't deal in lies, Or, being hated, don't give way to hating, And yet don't look too good, nor talk too wise;
If you can dream - and not make dreams your master; If you can think - and not make thoughts your aim; If you can meet with triumph and disaster And treat those two imposters just the same;
If you can keep your head when all about you Are losing theirs and blaming it on you;
If you can trust yourself when all men doubt you, But make allowance for their doubting too;
If you can wait and not be tired by waiting, Or, being lied about, don't deal in lies, Or, being hated, don't give way to hating, And yet don't look too good, nor talk too wise;
If you can dream - and not make dreams your master; If you can think - and not make thoughts your aim; If you can meet with triumph and disaster And treat those two imposters just the same;
If you can bear to hear the truth you've spoken Twisted by knaves to make a trap for fools, Or watch the things you gave your life to broken, And stoop and build 'em up with worn out tools;
If you can make one heap of all your winnings And risk it on one turn of pitch-and-toss, And lose, and start again at your beginnings And never breathe a word about your loss;
If you can force your heart and nerve and sinew To serve your turn long after they are gone, And so hold on when there is nothing in you Except the Will which says to them: "Hold on";
If you can talk with crowds and keep your virtue, Or walk with kings - nor lose the common touch;
If neither foes nor loving friends can hurt you;
If all men count with you, but none too much;
If you can fill the unforgiving minute With sixty seconds' worth of distance run - Yours is the Earth and everything that's in it, And - which is more - you'll be a Man my son!
By Rudyard Kipling
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