| Dear
Mrs Wheatley, You wrote me so sweetly Requesting my version of Proust; But I could not accede To your metrical need For my reading still wanted a boost. At the time that you wrote, In a musical note, I fear I had to say no. With one volume aboard, And the other two stored, I had thousands of pages to go. Now that they're read. And swirl in my head, I will do my best to comply; Given the strength, I'll diminish the length To a stanza or two in reply: |
Life's
but contingent; Art is more stringent For spotting the essence of truth, Which can only be found Retrospecting the ground That lies between old age and youth. Proust was no stranger To memory's danger. (I think I'd better not risk it - I don't wish to spend My life, till its end, Recalling a madeleine biscuit.) So I'll take his advice And skip in a trice All thoughts of erotic elation. The mind starts to race As amours gather pace; But they always end in frustration. And friendship's no fun If your friends, one by one, Get involved in embarrassing crises; The reason appears That they're mostly all queers - Replete with unnatural vices. The salon's the centre To which you must enter, Receiving the welcome you're due. You can be an ex-tart But you won't even start If your father or mother's a Jew. Proust can weep oceans At all his emotions - And match the tears to his pain. But each tear is a word And, in case you've not heard, He'll write them all over again. Discovering Time That is lost is no crime, And I feel for a heart that is bleeding But I'm counting the cost Of the time I have lost In thousands of pages of reading. back Return to Poetry Contents Return to Home |