Who is the “I” refered to in a poem? Frequently (but by no means always) the “I” in question is the poet him/herself. We should not, however make the mistake of assuming that the “I” in a given poem does, necessarily refer to the person who has penned the poem. This issue receives attention here, https://wewritepoetryforum.wordpress.com/2018/03/31/poetic-tidbit-1-personas/.
I live too much in my head.
When I am dead
These words here said
May moulder in bookcases.
I hope they will be read
By those who’s faces
Are healthy with the glow
Produced by England’s country air.
When I go
Why should I care?
For I will not know
Whether it be so …
Some leave institutions behind.
I shall leave a piece of my mind
To be read
When I am dead
(or not as the case may be)!
It amuses me
To think what others may see
In scribbles left behind
By one who lived too much in his own mind.
There was a young lady named Lynn
Who wrote a treatise on original sin.
She was rather pretty
And extremely witty
And an expert on original sin!
Conspiracy theory
Most dreary.
“Little green men are getting into my head”
He said.
“The Russians didn’t poison those people in Salisbury you know …”.
On and on they go
The crackpots who have heard or read
Something crazy and, of course it is true!
“The Jew
Is controlling the world and the holocaust is a lie”.
I wonder why people deny
History’s weight
And give way to hate.
The holocaust did take place
But weirdos and extremists after fantasies chase
While fake “historians” grin
And coin it in.
“Little green men” are harmless
While holocaust deniers are charmless
(But by no means harmless)!
Putin must be laughing up his sleeve
At the gullible idiots who believe
That Britain released a nerve agent on it’s own street.
So I greet
Each conspiracy theory
Most dreary
With a contemptuous smile
While
I bite my tongue lest my disdain
Is made plain in words.
There was a young lady called May
Who performed in a very strange play.
Having neither beginning nor end
Her friends all contend
That it really wasn’t a play!
Shall I compete
With high-heeled feet
As the gods look down
And snigger or frown?
Aphrodite is flighty
Yet I have thought her divine
And from time to time
Still worship at her shrine.
Nymphs suppress a sigh
And smile.
They will, for a little while
Stay
Though they long to hie
Away.
Gloss
May conceal the crack of age.
I am at a loss
But should learn
To turn
Over a new page
For this stage
Is a temporary thing
And I am without a ring
Through thick and thin
I shall oppose sin
For I am pure
As the snow covered moor
Ere footfall
Spoils all.
I am a saint
(Which is rather quaint
In this age).
But open the pristine cover
And look beyond the page
And you will discover
A man much like his brother …
Walking the shoreline
I perceive that there is a fine line
Between our yearning to be free
And our respect for the sea.
There was a young man from Bristol
Who threatened me with his pistol.
When the gun backfired
As I desired
He flew many miles from Bristol!
—
There was an elderly man from Bristol
Who threatened me with his pistol.
He said “keep away from my daughter
Or I will you slaughter
With this powerful water pistol!”.
—
There was a young man from Bristol
Who was a collector of crystal.
He owned an antique gun
And just for fun
I shot him with his pistol!
Yesterday evening I read an article entitled “The Privilege Paradox”, http://quillette.com/2018/03/27/the-privilege-paradox/ . The article reminded me of my own short poem “Privilege” which runs thus:
“I stand opposed to all privilege,
To the bitter end.
Yet, if it be mine own
I do, as a dog with a bone
My privilege defend,
Gainst foe and friend”.
(https://newauthoronline.com/2017/09/20/privilege/).
K Morris - Poet 