Guest poem sent in by Sriram
(Poem #97) The Fly
Little Fly Thy summers play, My thoughtless hand Has brush'd away. Am not I A fly like thee? Or art not thou A man like me? For I dance And drink and sing Till some blind hand Shall brush my wing. If thought is life And strength and breath; And the want of thought is death; Then am I A happy fly, If I live, Or if I die.
The Fly touches me, like all great art, at several levels. The words are simple yet so profound- le mot juste. The structure is perfect for the subject, the tone and the meaning. The rhythm simple yet powerful, again eminently suited to the tone, and the message. The "meaning" is so clear, Blake succeeds so well, seemingly effortlessly- a 5 year-old and a 50 year-old can both access it equally well: ...the pages blur, the walls transparent. Finally, it is a delight to read aloud, and silently- a joy of a poem. Sriram