Monday, October 5, 2015

William H. Drummond writes

Spring has Come
Spring has come; the grass is young
Time is moving on
But I am mired in blackest night
Despairing of the dawn 

New things grow; fresh winds blow
Nature wakes from sleep
But I’m a stranger to the light
All I can do is weep 

Inside my heart there is a part
Wishes it could feel
But I know nothing of delight
Those feelings are not real

Trees with broken branches grow
And weeds and fungi thrive
But I am empty as a hole
Just nominally alive 

I’ve been a fool; I went to school
Worked hard as I knew how
Swallowed lies without a bite
And just look at me now

My love was given to a girl
Who bedded my best friend
The pattern was repeated
And I can spot a trend 

It’s a funny world we live in
A funny world indeed
But I am not now laughing
And from my tears I bleed

1 comment:

  1. William's despair in this poem is camouflaged by its rollicking rhythm; if one hears the sound without paying attention to he words, one would probably mistake its intent. In an opposite way, Theodore Roethke used rhythm to express his love for his father, belying the dark images his words suggest, in My Papa’s Waltz:

    The whiskey on your breath
    Could make a small boy dizzy;
    But I hung on like death:
    Such waltzing was not easy.

    We romped until the pans
    Slid from the kitchen shelf;
    My mother’s countenance
    Could not unfrown itself.

    The hand that held my wrist
    Was battered on one knuckle;
    At every step you missed
    My right ear scraped a buckle.

    You beat time on my head
    With a palm caked hard by dirt,
    Then waltzed me off to bed
    Still clinging to your shirt.


Join the conversation! What is your reaction to the post?