Monday, November 23, 2009

Bad Poetry Monday

I chose this for the title. Honestly, you could probably argue the body of the poem is good, but that title was enough to set me giggling because I am, apparently, a 12-year-old boy.

"To a Young Ass
its mother being tethered near it"

Samuel Taylor Coleridge

I actually studied Coleridge, was finishing that grad class about a year ago. We did not happen on this little gem.

Anyway. There are so many things I'd love to rant about but, one -- it's not Rant Wednesday, and two, it's about some problems I'm having with students, and that would be completely unethical. So. It's end of the quarter, and I'm pushing through.

Happy soon-to-be Thanksgiving!

Here's the body of the poem for those interested:

Poor little foal of an oppress├Ęd race!
I love the languid patience of thy face:
And oft with gentle hand I give thee bread,
And clap thy ragged coat, and pat thy head.
But what thy dulled spirits hath dismayed,
That never thou dost sport along the glade?
And (most unlike the nature of things young)
That earthward still thy moveless head is hung?
Do thy prophetic fears anticipate,
Meek Child of Misery! thy future fate?
The starving meal, and all the thousand aches
"Which patient Merit of the Unworthy takes"?
Or is thy sad heart thrilled with filial pain
To see thy wretched mother's shortened chain?
And truly, very piteous is her lot --
Chained to a log within a narrow spot,
Where the close-eaten grass is scarcely seen,
While sweet around her waves the tempting green!

Poor Ass! they master should have learnt to show
Pity -- best taught by fellowship of Woe!
For much I fear me that He lives like thee,
Half famished in a land of Luxury!
How askingly its footsteps hither bend!
It seems to say, "And have I then one friend?"
Innocent foal! thou poor despised forlorn!
I hail thee Brother -- spite of the fool's scorn!
And fain would take thee with me, in the Dell
Of Peace and mild Equality to dwell,
Where Toil shall call the charmer Health his bride,
And Laughter tickle Plenty's ribless side!
How thou wouldst toss thy heels in gamesome play,
And frisk about, as lamb or kitten gay!
Yea! and more musically sweet to me
Thy dissonant harsh bray of joy would be,
Than warbled melodies that soothe to rest
The aching of pale Fashion's vacant breast!


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