[Martin Elster]

Two Views

While I am undepressed
trudging through cold rain,
you tremble from the strain
that infiltrates your nest
snug as a coat. I’m blest
and calm, while the steel chain
of duty rattles your brain
so much you cannot rest.
I get a magical blast
from being, though blossoms wilt
around me; while each day
the walls of the castle you built
can’t keep away your past
like a somber overlay.

[Spindleshanks]

So let the heaven’s pour. I’m undepressed
by flooded fields, by bogged machines. It’s rain!
It’s tanks replenished— no more need to strain
the drinking water! Here at Cocky’s Nest,
we’re dancing in the paddocks. Man, I’m blest
if I know whether this will break the chain
of drought years altogether; my poor brain
can’t work that out. I’ll just enjoy the rest
from worry that this unexpected blast
from Cyclone Laurence brought. The crops may wilt
in future years, but that’s another day.
For now, this wide estate my forbears built
has come alive as in long winters past.
Tirra loo! tirra lee! tirra lay!

oOOo

[Martin Elster]

Another environmental/cosmic/nature poem (It seems that is where my mind is lately.)

On Her Flesh

Unlike the moon Earth’s mostly undepressed
from meteors, though ice and wind and rain
erode her surfaces, while oceans strain
her carbon from the air. This world can nest
in Jupiter — ginormous, but not blest
with such a wealth of creatures (the food chain).
Pondering this flabbergasts the brain
of men who, on her flesh, play, work and rest.

Yet maybe she feels ire at beasts who blast
holes in her hide and cause blossoms to wilt
and fell entire forests. Day by day
she feels more edifices being built,
and grumbles sotto voce. When she’s past
the turning point, on whom should the guilt lay?

[Martin Elster]

That's excellent, Peter! Bravo. If I were living where you are, that's just the kind of poem I would want to write.

[Spindleshanks]

Thanks Martin. It's amazing that so many themes and variations can be hammered out from such a miscellaneous bunch of rhymes. The Oldies will be pleased.

Peter

[Roger Slater]

RAIN!

How do I feel when there is sun? Depressed.
That's right. Depressed! I'm happiest when rain
relieves me of the tension and the strain
of sunlight that would rouse me from my nest,
the only place in which I'm truly blest.
The minute that I leave it, there's a chain
of circumstances to oppress my brain.
The world is spinning! And you know the rest.

For some, I guess, the spinning is a blast,
there's nothing that can make their spirits wilt
or hestitate to seize each blessed day.
But that is simply not how I am built.
When sunshine comes, I wait until it's past.
What joy to keep on lying where I lay!

[Martin Elster]

Being Undepressed

So much depends on being undepressed
while slogging through the icy wind and rain
or when it seems that life’s atonal strain
will quake inside you till your very nest
explodes. While staying undepressed, you’re blest
as a monarch sipping milkweed. When a chain
of gloomy thoughts starts clinking in your brain,
be that butterfly and take a rest.

Or if that doesn’t work, then simply blast
right off this world — for it will surely wilt
as it keeps growing warmer by the day,
half of the creatures evolution built
becoming relics of the distant past.
Be quick. Go build your starship. Don’t delay!

[Martin Elster]

John,

I was wondering when sending two or more poems, if you should put them all in one e-mail or send each poem in a separate e-mail.

Martin

[John Whitworth]

I don't see why you shouldn't put them in the same email. I did and won with my pseudonym I think. That was the Oldie but I don't see why Lucy should be different.

[Susan McLean]

Caliban in Love

Though racked by rage and spite, I’m undepressed
By slaving for the mage. Sweet odors rain
Around me as I work; a soothing strain
Of music lures me from my rocky nest.
If I were not so lonely, I’d feel blest
Merely to watch Miranda, but the chain
Of longing chafes a channel in my brain,
And dreaming of her drives me from all rest.
The wait grows shorter. Like the recent blast
Which cropped tall pines and made the violets wilt,
The wizard’s strength will wither in a day
And, with it, all the barriers he built.
Then over the dead body of the past,
I’ll show where my true feelings always lay.


John, is it typical for The Oldie to print titles of poems, or just the poems themselves, as The Spectator does? Since I have never read the journal, do you think the content of this is too raw for their tastes?

Susan