I am not worthy:
I suffer from poetry scurvy!
Too many times
I have forsaken the rhymes
That to me are like limes.
I come out in blotches… and rashes… splotches and spots…
If I don’t write, and recite, poetry… lots!
It’s like a maddening disease,
I cough and I sneeze…
Give me some poetry, please!
Read to me of the Ancient’s Rime,
Or, give me, but world enough and time
Then this shakiness, lady, would be no crime,
For I could pen a line or two,
And dedicate my verse to you,
Jot a Limerick, neat and quick,
Or create for you
A perfectly good Haiku –
That would surely do the trick!
But, as it is, I’m fairly sure
My fevered brow will dare no more
To put down words for others’ pleasure;
Buried deep is my lyrical treasure.
No ‘X’ marks the place;
No map does show a single trace
Of where I lost the cursed sense
That I garnered from innocence and experience.
And if, mayhap, you chance upon
The ‘monkey’s paw,’, ‘King Alfred’s Scone’
When out one day, not drowning, but walking
Or some other such-like accursed thing.
Then beware the Jabberwock, my son,
And don’t gaze upon the Bandersnatch,
Or else it’s likely that a poeticious disease you will catch.
My malady is getting me down a tad;
My muse is confused ; my ballad, sad;
I seem to have lost the ‘whatever’ I had.
I know I’ve committed crimes against rhymes; I’ve done my time,
Unlearned the rules, over-reached my prime, misused the tools
That a poet should care for; given up the reason, the why and the wherefore
Art thou, Romeo? Is this a doggerel that I see before me?
Not a Handel, just a rag-time band!
All I hope and pray is you understand;
Under-hand, I leave you now,
When my germs have transferred, I’ll take my bow.
I’ll pass the buck, loan the muse;
Now you can bemoan the poet’s blues.
Graeme Sandford 