| |
… most weary, cry 'I can no more'. I can;
Can something, hope, wish day come, not choose not to be.
GERARD MANLEY HOPKINS
Today is new. What can I be?
Success or brave integrity?
I can do all my world demands,
Do all society requires;
Will train myself to snub my glands,
And every dream, and all desires;
Will break my spirit and my back
With some mundane and lifeless thing;
Day in day out, make it my track,
And walk it soft, with hidden wing.
Live life I could through gritted teeth
Which ever slacken as I numb
With habit’s hand to gently wreath
My brow with sighs, as I succumb.
I will not notice myself then
When I am there, within the crowd.
I will forget, and become men,
No longer man – But why not proud?
Pleasantness, well, it's all they ask.
I shall pay tax, and other ways.
Abandon all for the good task;
You need what Mister Neighbour says –
The same housecarninetofivekids,
Plenty of keys, a pet perhaps
(Like you it does what owner bids,
Has its own time consumed by naps) .
And in the end, long sleep we taste,
And Mister Neighbour says oh dears,
Then, “Pity, SUCH a dreadful waste.
A fine life though, with few arrears.”
Grandchildren cry, ninetofivekids
Sell my old housecar for their own.
This is success. We close our lids
As children still, if somewhat grown;
As buds unbloomed, as souls unsplayed,
Who swapped their sense for the essential.
The individual’s killed, we’re paid,
And each is stranger to potential.
Today is new, and I am sure,
As the dawn slowly rolls down roofs,
Drips on the door, I could ignore
My footsteps thus far made but hoofs
Hurrying always nearer range.
Clockily cackling Time is borne
Upon the steed. And can I change?
And can I rearrange the worn,
The comfy cape in what remains?
Have I time? No. He has me. Day.
Here is a new day mopping lanes
And come to ask, “Come out to play”.
A day to dry the webs of dew,
Show the fragility is there;
Everywhere silk ties strain anew.
The day asks, “Snap? ”, and, “Do you dare? ”
And you say, “Truth”, but it is thin,
And struggles, tires, rests in the web,
And all is end; no things begin,
But drift away upon the ebb.
Here is a new day coming then,
To dream the undreamt dreams of men.
Samuel Reed
|
|
User Rating: |
|
--
/10
(0 votes) |
|
|
|
E-mail this poem to e friend