Promise
Great was my wonder when my first poem
In ordered lines of print met my proud gaze,
And greater grew my wonder when they said
That it was good, and I must write again.
With trembling eagerness I took my pen
And thrilling with the knowledge of my skill
I vowed I’d show them what a poet they
Unknowingly had harboured in their midst.
The muses flocked around me as I wrote
And freely flowed the stream of limpid words
Until a thing of perfect beauty shone
From the close-written page before me. Flushed
With pride and triumph now I quickly made
A neat unblemished copy of my work
And after one last rapt admiring gaze
I folded it and sent it off to those
Whose praise had been the inspiration of
This new-created glowing masterpiece.
Impatiently awaiting their reply
I pictured the receival, opening
The reading, passing round, and better still
The praise they would be giving it and me.
At last, and not till four long days were sped
A letter from them lay there in my hand,
And I just looked at it and let it lie,
Content to muse on what it must contain.
Then with a throbbing heart and shaking hands
I drew the letter from the envelope
And slowly opened it, and let my eyes
Begin to feast upon the honeyed words.
But, with a sickening, hollow heavy thud
My heart stopped beating and stood still. My eyes
Read on, and yet my brain so slowly worked
That that first sentence drummed upon it twice,
Three, four, five times before I really knew
My eyes were truly reading what was in
The letter I had longed for for so long.
‘Dear Meg’ it said, ‘your first effort was good
But this one’s tripe, and we think just a spot
Priggish and insincere, but you show promise.’
Promise be blowed, if this is writing poetry
The only promise I shall make will be
Never to try again
Never
No
More!
Margaret Taylor