[Graham King]

Past Regrets

A twelve-month past, I’m sure I set
My heart to work on what I loved the best.
Did I begin? Did I try yet?
My resolution slumped; I do not pass the yearly test.

A year or more it was, ago,
That I swore I’d bring home 'no more such junk!'
The process has continued, though;
My attic and my outhouse overflow. That oath was bunk.

My skills lie boxed-in on the shelf,
A trove unopened. Where’s the merit sweet?
It seems I still defeat myself;
What honours do I gain by such long, wholesale, self-deceit?
[or ‘What does it profit me – such long-stored, wholesale, self-deceit?’]

Truth told, I dread to try and fail
[or ‘Truth told, I fear attempts may fail,’ – any better?]
In some way I do not control or choose;
And so (this paradox, my tale!)
By changing not, I win at least this: certainty I’ll lose.


[The poem is about hoarding supposedly-useful materials, to the point that they crowd out scope for actually making anything of them. But I'm not confident I put that across sufficiently here. All comments welcome.]