It seems I have been so slow at posting recently that I have even managed to post my Terrible Tuesdays one day late, for which I must beg your appology, I have now, at least, managed to move into my new flat in Aberystwyth and it is from there that I present another poor attempt at poetry, which I have written in the front of a sketchbook I brought down to start work on over this new term.
Please then, may I present an untitled work, of no real use nor skill.
On a misty Monday morn,
While wrapping lay uncouth and torn,
Here ‘twixt the finger and the thumb
(In thought of artwork yet to come)
This pen was used to scribe in black
Some words this paper used to lack;
They bore no art, weren’t grand or great,
And sought few morning pangs to sate,
For here within the fears of man
These dreams of better things began:
A seagul rose, and then some more,
The finest of that sea-strong score,
A stave of wood larks in the East,
Where rose the sun, that mighty beast,
And here and there between the haze
The distant shoreline chorus plays.
Perhaps upon these pages yet
Some finer fortune can be set
Than all of mankind’s scorn and mess
That stands ‘twixt earth and perfectness.
So here in pencil, pen, (or verse),
I pray you’ll find no fear nor curse,
Perhaps you’ll chance beyond this rhyme
Some relic of a better time;
Some art to wash away the lies
Of what you’ll find beneath these skies.
And should you find my thoughts here wrong;
Then please, I say, keep reading on,
For though so far quite damned we seem,
Mankind is still a rising dream:
And ev’ry soul who wants for good
And turns the earth the way it should,
Then, Oh! To you, dear honest friend,
I pray old fortune finds no end;
And so I do, with hopeful heart,
Present these crimes, which some call art.
Until next time, dear reader,