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Auden, with his poem, evokes the reverse, a European colony planted in China by the Portuguese in 1557. He notes the relationship between imperialism and religion and the way, bit by bit, European institutions were grafted to an alien shore. How better to express the effect of Macao than to begin to talk about it in these brief, concrete terms: “weed,” “Catholic Europe,” “gay stone houses,” the latter replicas of hillside dwellings in Portugal itself, painted rainbow colors?
A poem is not a particular thing. Some are good, some bad, some easy, some difficult. To love poetry is not to love all poems. A poem is not necessarily like one of our current balmy days, bound by its character to appeal to and please everyone. A poem might be compared to an herb garden. It warrants exploration, attention and discriminating sampling. The tastes and odors of some herbs are stronger, more pungent or sweeter than others. Some are more suggestive than assertive. That’s also true of poems.
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