Poetry Corner

I love poetry, always have. I even went through a phase of writing it (no, I shan't be sharing it on here).
After reading this post I thought I would post my favourites. Sorry Marie, I'm doing a lot of copying today. Just like the old days (you do the Maths homework, I'll do the French and then we'll have more time for listening to crap pop music). And it is true, we DID used to learn poetry by heart, for fun. And sign language song lyrics. Incidentally, Suggs would have you believe that Birds Eye invented fish finger sandwiches. Actually, PTC and I used to eat them by the box-full with heinz vegetable soup when we were revising for our GCSEs.

I loved Marie's choices and If is certainly one of my favourites.

One Art
Elizabeth Bishop

The art of losing isn't hard to master;
so many things seem filled with the intent
to be lost that their loss is no disaster.

Lose something every day. Accept the fluster
of lost door keys, the hour badly spent.
The art of losing isn't hard to master.

Then practice losing farther, losing faster:
places, and names, and where it was you meant
to travel. None of these will bring disaster.

I lost my mother's watch. And look! my last, or
next-to-last, of three loved houses went.
The art of losing isn't hard to master.

I lost two cities, lovely ones. And, vaster,
some realms I owned, two rivers, a continent.
I miss them, but it wasn't a disaster.

---Even losing you (the joking voice, a gesture
I love) I shan't have lied. It's evident
the art of losing's not too hard to master
though it may look like (Write it!) like disaster.

My second choice is by Charlotte Perkins Gilman. By the way, if you ever get a chance to read The Yellow Wallpaper by her you really ought to.

An Obstacle

I was climbing up a mountain-path/ With many things to do,
Important business of my own,/ And other people's too,
When I ran against a Prejudice/ That quite cut off the view.

My work was such as could not wait,/ My path quite clearly showed,
My strength and time were limited,/ I carried quite a load;
And there that hulking Prejudice/ Sat all across the road.

So I spoke to him politely,/ For he was huge and high,
And begged that he would move a bit/ And let me travel by.
He smiled, but as for moving!--/ He didn't even try.

And then I reasoned quietly/ With that colossal mule:
My time was short--no other path--/ The mountain winds were cool.
I argued like a Solomon;/ He sat there like a fool.

Then I flew into a passion,/ I danced and howled and swore.
I pelted and belabored him/ Till I was stiff and sore;
He got mad as I did--/ But sat there as before.

And then I begged him on my knees;/ I might be kneeling still
If so I hoped to move that mass/ Of obdurate ill-will
--As well invite the monument/ To vacate Bunker Hill!

So I sat before him helpless,/ In an ecstasy of woe
--The mountain mists were rising fast,/ The sun was sinking slow
--When a sudden inspiration came,/ As sudden winds do blow.

I took my hat, I took my stick,/ My load I settled fair,
I approached that awful incubus/ With an absent minded air
--And I walked directly through him,/ As if he wasn't there!
--Charlotte Perkins Stetson Gilman, 1898