Sunday, 28 August 2011

No.7

SATIRES OF CIRCUMSTANCE

1
At Tea

The kettle descants in a cosy drone,
And the young wife looks in her husband's face,
And then at her guest's, and shows in her own
Her sense that she fills an envied place;
And the visiting lady is all abloom,
And says there was never so sweet a room.

And the happy young housewife does not know
That the woman beside her was first his choice,
Till the fates ordained it could not be so -
Betraying nothing in look or voice
The guest sits smiling and sips her tea,
And he throws her a stray glance yearningly.

-o-0-o-

2
In Church

“And now to God the Father,” he ends,
And his voice thrills up to the topmost tiles:
Each listener chokes as he bows and bends,
And emotion pervades the crowded aisles.
Then the preacher glides to the vestry-door,
And shuts it, and thinks he is seen no more.

The door swings softly ajar meanwhile,
And a pupil of his in the Bible class,
Who adores him as one without gloss or guile,
Sees her idol stand with a satisfied smile
And re-enact at the vestry-glass
Each pulpit gesture in deft dumb-show
That had moved the congregation so.

-o-0-o-

3
By Her Aunt's Grave

“Sixpence a week,” says the girl to her lover,
“Aunt used to bring me, for she could confide
In me alone, she vowed. 'Twas to cover
The cost of her headstone when she died.
And that was a year ago last June;
I've not yet fixed it. But I must soon.”

“And where is the money now, my dear?”
“O, snug in my purse - Aunt was so slow
In saving it - eighty weeks, or near,”
“Let's spend it,” he hints. “For she won't know
There's a dance to-night at the Load of Hay.”
She passively nods. And they go that way.

-o-0-o-

4
In the Room of the Bride-Elect

“Would it had been the man of our wish!”
Sighs her mother. To whom with vehemence she
In the wedding-dress - the wife to be -
“Then why were you so mollyish
As not to insist on him for me?”
The mother, amazed: “Why, dearest one,
Because you pleaded for this or none!”

“But Father and you should have stood out strong!
Since then, to my cost, I have lived to find
That you were right and that I was wrong;
This man is a dolt to the one declined -
Ah! - here he comes with his button-hole rose.
Good God - I must marry him I suppose!”

-o-0-o-

5
At a Watering-Place

They sit and smoke on the esplanade,
The man and his friend, and regard the bay
Where the far chalk cliffs, to the left displayed,
Smile sallowly in the decline of day.
And saunterers pass with laugh and jest -
A handsome couple among the rest.

“That smart proud pair,” says the man to his friend,
“Are to marry next week - How little he thinks
That dozens of days and nights on end
I have stroked her neck, unhooked the links
Of her sleeve to get at her upper arm -
Well, bliss is in ignorance: what's the harm!”

-o-0-o-

Next Sunday - Satires of Circumstance Nos.6-10

new - beginning tomorrow
POETRY FOR PLEASURE
Every week-day a poem, a ballad, humorous verses or song lyrics - in fact anything that rhymes!
http://poetryforpleasure.blogspot.com



Sunday, 21 August 2011

No.6

FAINTHEART IN A RAILWAY TRAIN

At nine in the morning there passed a church,
At ten there passed me by the sea,
At twelve a town of smoke and smirch,
At two a forest of oak and birch,
And then, on a platform, she.

A radiant stranger, who saw not me,
I said, “Get out to her do I dare?”
But I kept my seat in my search for a plea,
And the wheels moved on. O could it but be
That I had alighted there!

-oo0oo-

A PRACTICAL WOMAN

"O who’ll get me a healthy child -
I should prefer a son -
Seven have I had in thirteen years,
Sickly every one!

"Three mope about as feeble shapes;
Weak; white; they’ll be no good.
One came deformed; an idiot next;
And two are crass as wood.

"I purpose one not only sound
In flesh, but bright in mind;
And duly for producing him
A means I’ve now to find."

She went away. She disappeared,
Years, years. Then back she came;
In her hand was a blooming boy
Mentally and in frame.

"I found a father at last who’d suit
The purpose in my head,
And used him till he’s done his job,"
Was all thereon she said.

-oo0oo-

THE LITTLE OLD TABLE

Creak, little wood thing, creak,
When I touch you with elbow or knee;
That is the way you speak
Of one who gave you to me!

You, little table, she brought -
Brought me with her own hand,
As she looked at me with a thought
That I did not understand.

Whoever owns it anon,
And hears it, will never know
What a history hangs upon
This creak from long ago.

-oo0oo-

Sunday, 14 August 2011

No.5

THE WELL-BELOVED

I went by star and planet shine
Towards the dear one's home
At Kingsbere, there to make her mine
When the next sun upclomb.

I edged the ancient hill and wood
Beside the Ikling Way,
Nigh where the Pagan temple stood
In the world's earlier day.

And as I quick and quicker walked
On gravel and on green,
I sang to sky, and tree, or talked
Of her I called my queen.

O faultless is her dainty form,
And luminous her mind;
She is the God-created norm
Of perfect womankind!

A shape whereon one star-blink gleamed
Slid softly by my side,
A woman's; and her motion seemed
The motion of my bride.

And yet methought she'd drawn erstwhile
Adown the ancient leaze,
Where once were pile and peristyle
For men's idolatries.

"O maiden lithe and lone, what may
Thy name and lineage be,
Who so resemblest by this ray
My darling? - Art thou she?"

The Shape: "Thy bride remains within
Her father's grange and grove."
"Thou speakest rightly," I broke in,
"Thou art not she I love."

"Nay: though thy bride remains inside
Her father's walls," said she,
"The one most dear is with thee here,
For thou dost love but me."

Then I: "But she, my only choice,
Is now at Kingsbere Grove!"
Again her soft mysterious voice:
"I am thy only Love."

Thus still she vouched, and still I said,
"O sprite, that cannot be!"
It was as if my bosom bled,
So much she troubled me.

The sprite resumed: "Thou hast transferred
To her dull form awhile
My beauty, fame, and deed, and word,
My gestures and my smile.

"O fatuous man, this truth infer,
Brides are not what they seem;
Thou lovest what thou dreamest her;
I am thy very dream!"

"O then," I answered miserably,
Speaking as scarce I knew,
"My loved one, I must wed with thee
If what thou sayest be true!"

She, proudly, thinning in the gloom:
"Though, since troth-plight began,
I've ever stood as bride to groom,
I wed no mortal man!"

Thereat she vanished by the lane
Adjoining Kingsbere town,
Near where, men say, once stood the Fane
To Venus, on the Down.

When I arrived and met my bride,
Her look was pinched and thin,
As if her soul had shrunk and died,
And left a waste within.

-oo0oo-

Saturday, 6 August 2011

No.4

SHELLEY’S SKYLARK

Somewhere afield here something lies
In Earth's oblivious eyeless trust
That moved a poet to prophecies,
A pinch of unseen, unguarded dust.

The dust of the lark that Shelley heard,
And made immortal through times to be;
Though it only lived like another bird,
And knew not its immortality.

Lived its meek life; then, one day, fell,
A little ball of feather and bone;
And how it perished, when piped farewell,
And where it wastes, are alike unknown.

Maybe it rests in the loam I view,
Maybe it throbs in a myrtle's green,
Maybe it sleeps in the coming hue
Of a grape on the slopes of yon inland scene.

Go find it, fairies, go and find
That tiny pinch of priceless dust,
And bring a casket silver-lined,
And framed of gold that gems encrust;

And we will lay it safe therein,
And consecrate it to endless time;
For it inspired a bard to win
Ecstatic heights in thought and rhyme.

-oo0oo-

THE SELFSAME SONG

A bird sings the selfsame song,
With never a fault in its flow,
That we listened to here those long
Long years ago.

A pleasing marvel is how
A strain of such rapturous rote
Should have gone on thus till now
unchanged in a note!

But its not the selfsame bird,
No: perished to dust is he -
As also are those who heard
That song with me.

-oo0oo-

WEATHERS

1
This is the weather the cuckoo likes,
And so do I;
When showers betumble the chestnut spikes,
And nestlings fly:
And the little brown nightingale bills his best,
And they sit outside at "The Travellers' Rest"
And maids come forth sprig-muslin dressed,
And citizens dream of the south and west,
And so do I.

2
This is the weather the shepherd shuns,
And so do I;
When beeches drip in browns and duns,
And thresh, and ply;
And hill-hid tides throb, throe on throe,
And meadow rivulets overflow,
And drops on gate-bars hang in a row,
And rooks in families homeward go,
And so do I.

-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-