This is intended as a bit of epic piffle in the style of Yeats or Shelley or some such similiar poet, such as one has not read. Is it Yeats? It might be Keats. Perhaps there are both. A Keats and a Yeats!
In any case, the name hardly matters - it's the impression that the name is meant to convey: that's the thing. This poem is intended to be in that same general rank and category, to belong to that particular grand style, to be placed in that class among the rich literary legacies of those immortal names, those giants: Keats, Shelley, and perhaps Yeats. Now that I think about it, "Yeats" sounds a little goofy. "Yeets!" But what do you want from me? I didn't name the bastard.
To best appreciate the effect of the language, the poem should be read aloud in a measured voice at a stately pace, in arch accents rich and dripping with ripe, plummy vowels; and read slowly - with great deliberation and with well-placed pauses to give the portent of it all a chance to really breathe. Remember: meaning lives in the silences.
Without further ado: I give you: The Sea-Bird:
It may seem a bit of a weak effort now, a bit daft to the modern eye perhaps. Never you mind. It will fall to later generations to read reams of meaning into those elegiac verses - certainly freighted to bursting with hidden significance and themes, themes, themes of universal import and significance. If I've learned one thing from studying poetry: that's it.
In any case, the name hardly matters - it's the impression that the name is meant to convey: that's the thing. This poem is intended to be in that same general rank and category, to belong to that particular grand style, to be placed in that class among the rich literary legacies of those immortal names, those giants: Keats, Shelley, and perhaps Yeats. Now that I think about it, "Yeats" sounds a little goofy. "Yeets!" But what do you want from me? I didn't name the bastard.
To best appreciate the effect of the language, the poem should be read aloud in a measured voice at a stately pace, in arch accents rich and dripping with ripe, plummy vowels; and read slowly - with great deliberation and with well-placed pauses to give the portent of it all a chance to really breathe. Remember: meaning lives in the silences.
Without further ado: I give you: The Sea-Bird:
The Sea-Bird
- by Geholmes Watchfop Thacklevoy -
(my pseudo pen-name de guerre du jour)
I saw a mighty sea-bird hover,
wings athwart, above a choppy river-mouth
that empties to the Bay.
She labored lightly, leaning into
headwind, shaking wings akimbo
barely flapping, course correcting,
one foot over copper waters.
Making slow but forward progress
all unsteady, shaking pinions
barely just aloft, but gliding
ever forward, yard by yard.
Suddenly, mid-air she stumbled,
tottered as the wind from under
failed her - her with only inches
'twixt her and the waves beneath.
Up they slapped, to catch and gather
her ungainly, graceless flapping,
floating now, and looking 'round to see
if any witness saw. I will never tell -
my lovely sea-bird: please consider
your indignity a confidence
between us that I vow to keep
as I make my way on forward
slowly, leaning into headwind
ever forward, yard by yard
catastrophe an inch beneath
It may seem a bit of a weak effort now, a bit daft to the modern eye perhaps. Never you mind. It will fall to later generations to read reams of meaning into those elegiac verses - certainly freighted to bursting with hidden significance and themes, themes, themes of universal import and significance. If I've learned one thing from studying poetry: that's it.
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