poetry

LAST QUARTERYou have been readingYour Shakespeare on evenings?Most certainly fulfilling,The hectic text billing!A Comedy of Errors – borrowedfrom Menaechmi and Alcestis.A Midsummer’s Night DreamAnd its Sylvan moonbeams.And twentieth century drama?Are you maintaining your stamina?Most certainly engagingIn these theatrical playthings.Yeats on Baile Strand –Cathleen Count and ni Houlihan.Chekov’s The SeagullAnd his Cherry Orchard mull.And what do you think nowthat seventeen weeks have passed?I believe life is worth living -Though poverty’s a misgivingThat a student takes as paymentFor the wealth of mental slaving.My brain may be splittingBut my hands are soft and clean.WEEK 18ABANDONMENTAll week long I have abandoned mystudiesAnd turned to typing my latest stageplay.Instead of in-going, my thoughts havebeen flowingThrough my fingers. Oh, you may thinkSuch trivial information should slideInto the trash can of my past – butHalf a student’s life is lived in order thatHe may somehow learn to record hispast.Such trite belief may be for the ignorant,Such sentiment be an elitist precept, butI would rather see my world in flamesThan see my time not tethered in thisway.For one day, the student will be a man,And face men as a man not a boy –Though, I de-mobbed to the rank of studentI’m seeking benefit from such a fall.By rising to it all, I know better –Or perhaps I can really only guessThat first class degrees are won by courage,Risk, and spins of bare-faced gall – providedYou bandage your neck begging for thechop.One bright idea too many, one smartremark,First class honours hinge on more thanneatTyped essays and good tutor grades.And hence – my plays, my stories, myArmfuls of novels, poems and songs –These are my profession, my kind oftradeOf which study is half, or two thirds,andWriting practice stems from reading –Not from scribbling merrily on to sunrise.A word of advice to all would be writers–Never drain the lamp while it’s burning.Sunrises come, it’s the sunsets wecount;The flame may flicker in the light bulb,But it’s the sun that blinds.Man is out to destroy himself –It is the better part to know one’s self;Also knowing that wee hour writing is151