Miniver Cheevy, by Edwin Arlington Robinson

This week’s post is short, but not without your consideration. So, I have shared with you a poem that I adore; a poem that I very much identify with, and, I confess, is remarkably as close, as any poem ever has been before, to a portrait of my personality. To read this poem is to know who I am. I only wish I wrote it, lol.

Miniver Cheevy, child of scorn, Grew lean while he assailed the seasons; He wept that he was ever born, And he had reasons.
Miniver loved the days of old
When swords were bright and steeds were prancing; The vision of a warrior bold Would set him dancing.
Miniver sighed for what was not, And dreamed, and rested from his labors;
He dreamed of Thebes and Camelot, And Priam’s neighbors.
Miniver mourned the ripe renown That made so many a name so fragrant; He mourned Romance, now on the town, And Art, a vagrant.
Miniver loved the Medici, Albeit he had never seen one; He would have sinned incessantly Could he have been one.
Miniver cursed the commonplace And eyed a khaki suit with loathing; He missed the medieval grace Of iron clothing.
Miniver scorned the gold he sought,
But sore annoyed was he without it; Miniver thought, and thought, and thought, And thought about it.
Miniver Cheevy, born too late, Scratched his head and kept on thinking;
Miniver coughed, and called it fate, And kept on drinking.

Side note: Minutes ago, I submitted my last paper for finals. I calculated that I have written, in the past two weeks, fourteen-thousand words. Of course, that is what I kept in revision, and I am not counting anything written outside of academia.

One of my poems:

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