Think if you had been Robert Owen
Strangely not your little old self
You’d have learned from beastly war
Suffered as did the World War poets
Such insufferable iniquities for what?
So early dead, and posterity’s reputation
Oh yes being widely read, and immortality.
Sooner by far to be the unknown you are
Who chipped a nail once typing
Out would-be deathless lines
Than one who saw the slaughter
Of close combat in line trenches.
Or could have been Sylvia Plath
Ergo a Poet Laureate’s muse,
Endured egoist Hughes’ abuse
And trod a less than sylvan path
Down a valley of gloom
To suicidal doom.
You’d rather be plain old you
Wouldn’t you?
Comments
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hey frank
this was very enjoyable, i like poems that are about something or someone, in this case. bears out what i suspected that poetry is borne of suffering. you raise the issue is it worth it. i also learned about plath and owen.
dave -
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Hello Dave Ochs
They certainly were examples of the unluckiest type of poet, thanks for commenting Dave. Frank
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The irony of it all. The major poets lived in WW and are dead, some even committed suicide. But i also wonder if the world now is any different from back then. I can't even fully think that my plain old self is incapable of going through fire and into the valley of doom.
More than anything this poem leaves me wondering what it takes to be a major poet? does it mean writing about war? about death? does it mean i have to die to be one?
As now, i think i will remain to follow this road i am in...yes enjoy the idea of being plain old me, but that doesn't necessarily mean it is less gloomy as the sylvan path.
interesting perspective, enjoyed reading it.
-iphios -
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hello -iphios
Thanks for the comment iphios, Frank.
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