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. 1910
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:
I write the words I cannot pray, too false for Heaven, too honest for Hell, telling the truth by lying well.