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carose59On the way to my daily occupation,
Passing adown a chill, a dark way,
Entered I into the subway station
Known as Cathedral Parkway.
Ride who will on the elevated,
Tramp who will on the open road,
I took the subway, be it stated.
It’s nearest to my abode.
Life, I thought, is a game of cricket;
Life, I mused, is a thing alive.
I bought a ticket, I bought a ticket;
I think that I purchased five.
Those are the things that seethe and foment;
Those are the things that weigh my brow—
Not that I think they’re of any moment,
But Poetry’s like that now.
I waited six minutes upon that landing,
And at 9:42 I took and express;
Women and men were seated and standing,
Thinking of things, I guess.
And I looked over a gentleman’s shoulder—
He was probably forty-six years of age—
And read—though he may have been six months older—
All of the Times front page.
But something happen on which I reckoned
Not. I was reading, I said, the Times,
When the gentleman got off at Seventy-Second,
So I stood thinking of rhymes.
There were many persons standing near me,
Dull appearing and silly of face;
But in modern poetry, thought I, dear me!
Nothing is commonplace.
If I describe them, not acutely,
Telling, at length, what clothes they wear,
Manneredly, prosily, overminutely—
Merely that they were there—
I shall achieve quite a reputation
For seeing the Calm above the Strife;
I’ll be a Poet of Observation,
One who has Looked on Life;
One who can give interpretation,
One to invest the crude with grace,
One to—but then I reached my station.
It was, I recall, Park Place.
And I walked to the office, far from skittish
(I walk that way, as a general rule),
And I wished, I wished I were one of the British
Bards of the modern school.
A bard who could take his pen and ink it,
Listing things in a one-two-three
Order, till critics and men would think it
Utterest poetry.
Oh, for the storms of wild applause it
Would receive from the human race,
Most of whom’d think it was great because it
Merely was commonplace.
Still, on my way to my occupation,
Passed I adown a chill, a dark way.
Entered I into the subway station
Known as Cathedral Parkway.
--F. P. A.
Posted simultaneously on LiveJournal and Dreamwidth
Passing adown a chill, a dark way,
Entered I into the subway station
Known as Cathedral Parkway.
Ride who will on the elevated,
Tramp who will on the open road,
I took the subway, be it stated.
It’s nearest to my abode.
Life, I thought, is a game of cricket;
Life, I mused, is a thing alive.
I bought a ticket, I bought a ticket;
I think that I purchased five.
Those are the things that seethe and foment;
Those are the things that weigh my brow—
Not that I think they’re of any moment,
But Poetry’s like that now.
I waited six minutes upon that landing,
And at 9:42 I took and express;
Women and men were seated and standing,
Thinking of things, I guess.
And I looked over a gentleman’s shoulder—
He was probably forty-six years of age—
And read—though he may have been six months older—
All of the Times front page.
But something happen on which I reckoned
Not. I was reading, I said, the Times,
When the gentleman got off at Seventy-Second,
So I stood thinking of rhymes.
There were many persons standing near me,
Dull appearing and silly of face;
But in modern poetry, thought I, dear me!
Nothing is commonplace.
If I describe them, not acutely,
Telling, at length, what clothes they wear,
Manneredly, prosily, overminutely—
Merely that they were there—
I shall achieve quite a reputation
For seeing the Calm above the Strife;
I’ll be a Poet of Observation,
One who has Looked on Life;
One who can give interpretation,
One to invest the crude with grace,
One to—but then I reached my station.
It was, I recall, Park Place.
And I walked to the office, far from skittish
(I walk that way, as a general rule),
And I wished, I wished I were one of the British
Bards of the modern school.
A bard who could take his pen and ink it,
Listing things in a one-two-three
Order, till critics and men would think it
Utterest poetry.
Oh, for the storms of wild applause it
Would receive from the human race,
Most of whom’d think it was great because it
Merely was commonplace.
Still, on my way to my occupation,
Passed I adown a chill, a dark way.
Entered I into the subway station
Known as Cathedral Parkway.
--F. P. A.
Posted simultaneously on LiveJournal and Dreamwidth