Other formats

    Adobe Portable Document Format file (facsimile images)   TEI XML file   ePub eBook file  


    mail icontwitter iconBlogspot iconrss icon

The Spike or Victoria University College Review 1935

The Poet

page 16

The Poet

I Come from haunts of Keats and Burns
I make a sudden sonnet;
As one who sees a lamb, and yearns
To write a poem on it.

I mingle in my boyhood days
With literary rebels
I struggle for my laureate bays,
I babble over pebbles.

And what though life may often seem
Unhappy, drab and hollow?
I write it off as but a dream
And close my eyes and swallow.

I oft forgo my food and rest
With mental torture racked, till
I weave a subtle anapaest
Or snappy little dactyl.

On swift iambic feet I fly
With tricks of rhythm clever:
On such an easy metre I
Could rhyme along for ever.

O'er literary ways I dance
Through doggerel and classic,
With here and there a hopeful glance
At altitudes Parnassic.

For even Wordsworth's stony waste
Of wilderness Siberian
Has oftentimes a little taste
Of water-cress Pierian.

So gather I, through toil and debt,
For my poetic salad,
With here and there a triolet
And here and there a ballad.

With Cowper now I gloom and glide
Through dark and dreary levels,
Or plunge into the swirling tide
Of loose Byronic revels.

I walk the green Elysian lawns
With Grecian gods and goddesses
Or raise the gentle reader's yawns
With tough, long-winded Odysseys.

Or as the Swinburne manner is,
With pessimism weary all,
And toss off his philosophies
Of decadence venereal.

Or else with Blake I foam and prance
In metaphysic shallows;
I slip! I slide!—and end my dance
On some reviewer's gallows.

I burble, burble, as I go
To Lethe's brimming river,
Till claimed by that oblivious flow
I'm swallowed up forever.