Once upon a time, I read that the perfect age for writing quality poetry is twenty-three. Apparently most of T.S. Elliot’s stuff came out then, the rest having to do with non-poetic words. I realized January 19ththat I will turn twenty-four in three months, and since I started writing some poems before it’s too late: forty-six poems at twenty-three. I’ll post each Friday until the last week of March, then I’ll post one a day until my birthday on April 30th. Here’s number 32:
Under three things earth trembles,
Beneath four things worlds crumble:
A slave who takes a kingly throne
A fool full of food, yet all alone
A woman unloved, yet married long
A mistress displaced by her maidservant’s song
Three thing never satisfied
Never four say, “Enough!”
Barren wombs, open tombs
Land never quenched by falling water
Fire raging, burning hotter
Three things amaze, astound me
By four I’m without words:
The way of an eagle in the sky
The way of a snake on the rocks at night
The way of a ship on high raging seas
The way of a man with a maiden let free
Four things on Earth appear small
Yet they comprehend more than all:
Ants are creatures of little strength
Yet store up food in summer days
Rock Badgers possess little power
Yet dig homes in crags in under an hour
Lizards you can snatch up in your hand
Yet we find them in castle of the King’s own land
Locusts elect no king for their banks
Yet they all advance forward in ranks
Three things walk stately in their stride
Yes four things saunter before, beside:
A lion, stronger among the beasts
Who retreats, surrenders for nothing
A strutting rooster, a proud he-goat
& a king surrounded by army and cloak.
Two groups need to know these,
Four people respond:
Those who read poems more often than not
(The Romantics & The Vain)
or
The Practical & Prophetic
(Those who generally don’t).
Like this:
Be the first to like this post.
