I am glad once more to be producing* for you another post of inconsistent nonsense upon this humble blog, in which, perhaps, you may find more of worth than my eyes can glean. Now, I pray you might allow some honest introduction to be made for a crude art; an example of a piece of verse I wrote on my mobile while rather drunk some months ago while walking back to my flat in Aberystwyth after a night out. A strange thing for a blog post about, you may think, and indeed perhaps you may even enquire the point of such a rather needless post to clutter an already useless cluster of words. Oh, good reader, how I might agree, and I find little argument against such an idea, but I find it interesting how drink affects the mind and directs thought toward such things that otherwise I might never write about. Why confess the existence of this work so late after its doing, you might ask, have I spent the time in revision of it, in study, or reservation &c.? No, kind reader, I must admit none of such intellectual exploits have I allowed myself, for surely to change the poem greatly would indeed damage the very unique fact of instantaneity and difference that marked it out originally. The simple reason I give is that it was only a few days ago I found the note on my phone that contained the poem, and, after adjusting the interesting spelling and writing this blog post, it is now ready surely for other eyes.
So, with such a poor introduction to a merit-less subject, may I present an attempt at poetry of little remark other than to my own interest, writ experimentally in a drunken state some time in early May 2012:
The Fisherman’s Throne
A fisherman of humble birth
Gave up his lot to rule this earth,
And in the grey relentless sea
’twas forged another lot for he;
That when he ruled he would proclaim
To be the king of sun and rain,
To stand the light and beat the day,
And even conquer night alway.
That son of heaven heathen born
Even broke the weightless dawn
So that height of embers spread
From out his woven crown instead.
The fish he had been set to fell
Now long in peace were let to dwell,
The fishing now was that of men;
He picked his choice of four and ten,
And these were fourteen picked to be
Rulers of that foreign sea,
A place that had he kept fate true
Would be his own good fathoms blue.
Hark, what is that phantom there?
That fisher set for fortunes fair,
Why did he refute his claim
To his own good honest name?
Oh fisher king what have you done?
You’ve lost what’s good to rule the sun.
Why throne and fortune can’t compare
To heart or health or chances fair,
Neither can your name submit
To the goodness made for it;
Though at times things may seem bad
There’s fortunes lost you would have had,
Now remark this reason clear;
Good life is great and wealth quite drear.
For now, my dear readers, may I say good day,
*my second blog post created only on my mobile, good eh?