An Attempt At Unrhymed Verse -- Wendy Cope

Guest poem submitted by Monica Bathija:

(Poem #1764) An Attempt At Unrhymed Verse People tell you all the time, Poems do not have to rhyme. It's often better if they don't And I'm determined this one won't. Oh dear. Never mind, I'll start again. Busy, busy with my pen...cil. I can do it if I try-- Easy, peasy, pudding and gherkins. Writing verse is so much fun, Cheering as the summer weather, Makes you feel alert and bright, 'Specially when you get it more or less the way you want it. -- Wendy Cope

Here's one more by Wendy Cope, increasingly a favourite along with Sara
Teasdale thanks to Minstrels. Pencil and gherkins. Isn't that just so much
an effortless effort...

I loved it.

Monica.

At the last watch -- Rabindranath Tagore

Guest poem sent in by Monica Bathija

(Poem #1417) At the last watch Pity, in place of love, That pettiest of gifts, Is but a sugar-coating over neglect. Any passerby can make a gift of it To a street beggar, Only to forget the moment the first corner is turned. I had not hoped for anything more that day. You left during the last watch of night. I had hoped you would say goodbye, Just say 'Adieu' before going away, What you had said another day, What I shall never hear again. In their place, just that one word, Bound by the thin fabric of a little compassion Would even that have been too much for you to bear? When I first awoke from sleep My heart fluttered with fear Lest the time had been over. I rushed out of bed. The distant church clock chimed half past twelve I sat waiting near the door of my room Resting my head against it, Facing the porch through which you would come out. Even that tiniest of chances Was snatched away by fate from hapless me; I fell asleep Shortly before you left. Perhaps you cast a sidelong glance At my reclining body Like a broken boat left high and dry. Perhaps you walked away with care Lest you wake me up. Awaking with a start I knew at once That my vigil had been wasted I realised, what was to go went away in a moment, What was to stay behind stayed on For all time. Silence everywhere Like that of a birds' nest bereft of birds On the bough of a songless tree. With the lifeless light of the waning moon was now blended The pallor of dawn Spreading itself over the greyness of my empty life. I walked towards your bedroom For no reason. Outside the door Burnt a smoky lantern covered with soot, The porch smelt of the smouldering wick. Over the abandoned bed the flaps of the rolled-up mosquito-net Fluttered a little in the breeze. Seen in the sky outside through the window Was the morning star, Witness of all sleepless people Bereft of hope. Suddenly I found you had left behind by mistake Your gold-mounted ivory walking stick. If there were time, I thought, You might come back from the station to look for it, But not because You had not seen me before going away. -- Rabindranath Tagore

           23 May 1936

I recently went to Calcutta and Santiniketan, one of the reasons for the
visit being Tagore. I found this poem in a volume called Syamali, which is
also the name of one of the houses in which the poet lived in Santiniketan.

Through and through Tagore. Simple and beautiful, I love the way it
effortlessly evokes imagery. And of course, on an evening in a tourist
lodge, it touched just the right chord. But that's what poetry is for,
isn't it?

Monica

The Waking -- Theodore Roethke

Guest poem submitted by Monica Bathija:

(Poem #912) The Waking I wake to sleep, and take my waking slow. I feel my fate in what I cannot fear. I learn by going where I have to go. We think by feeling. What is there to know? I hear my being dance from ear to ear. I wake to sleep, and take my waking slow. Of those so close beside me, which are you? God bless the Ground! I shall walk softly there, And learn by going where I have to go. Light takes the Tree; but who can tell us how? The lowly worm climbs up a winding stair; I wake to sleep, and take my waking slow. Great Nature has another thing to do To you and me; so take the lively air, And, lovely, learn by going where to go. This shaking keeps me steady. I should know. What falls away is always. And is near. I wake to sleep, and take my waking slow. I learn by going where I have to go. -- Theodore Roethke

What attracted me to this poem first was the first line - "I wake to sleep
and take my waking slow". It seemed perfect for a dreamy lazy not-morning
person :). And of course "I learn by going where I have to go". Now every
time I read this poem I find it has something new to tell me through each
and every line. Besides the whole musicality of it.

Monica.

[Minstrels Links]

Named Poetic Forms:
Poem #904, The Shrinking Lonesome Sestina -- Miller Williams
Poem #905, I will put Chaos into fourteen lines -- Edna St. Vincent Millay
Poem #906, To a Fat Lady Seen From the Train -- Frances Cornford
Poem #907, Miss Charlotte Brown, Librarian, Goes Mad -- Felix Jung
Poem #908, Haiku -- Yosa Buson
Poem #909, The Limerick Packs Laughs Anatomical -- Anon.

Villanelles:
Poem #38, Do Not Go Gentle Into That Good Night  -- Dylan Thomas
Poem #202, Missing Dates  -- William Empson
Poem #393, One Drunken Night  -- Peter Schaeffer
Poem #677, Time will say nothing but I told you so  -- W. H. Auden
Poem #706, It is the pain, it is the pain endures  -- William Empson

Theodore Roethke:
Poem #267, The Meadow Mouse