A.E. HousmanSo what's your excuse? If Wendy can cope... sorry, I mean send in her entry, why can't you? Look, people, far be it from me - no, not just far, but as remotely distant as one can get - to hector or even achilles ('Hector, Hector and Achilles / Went round to their old friend, Billy's' etc.), but I am seriously worried about this poets poll. It is struggling. It is limping. Do you want it to be said that the normblog readers do all right when it's rock music or movies, but they have no poetry in their souls? Do you want that said? No, of course you don't.
This week's two poems were sent in by JG and George Szirtes, respectively.
The Road Not Taken (by Robert Frost)
Two roads diverged in a yellow wood,
And sorry I could not travel both
And be one traveler, long I stood
And looked down one as far as I could
To where it bent in the undergrowth;
Then took the other, as just as fair,
And having perhaps the better claim,
Because it was grassy and wanted wear;
Though as for that the passing there
Had worn them really about the same,
And both that morning equally lay
In leaves no step had trodden black.
Oh, I kept the first for another day!
Yet knowing how way leads on to way,
I doubted if I should ever come back.
I shall be telling this with a sigh
Somewhere ages and ages hence:
Two roads diverged in a wood, and I -
I took the one less traveled by,
And that has made all the difference.
Snow (by Louis MacNeice)
The room was suddenly rich and the great bay-window was
Spawning snow and pink roses against it
Soundlessly collateral and incompatible:
World is suddener than we fancy it.
World is crazier and more of it than we think,
Incorrigibly plural. I peel and portion
A tangerine and spit the pips and feel
The drunkenness of things being various.
And the fire flames with a bubbling sound for world
Is more spiteful and gay than one supposes -
On the tongue on the eyes on the ears in the palms of one's hands -
There is more than glass between the snow and the huge roses.