Wordsworth wrote an endless poem in blank verse on” the growth of a poet’s mind.” I shall attempt a more modest feat for a more distracted age: a blog, “Things which a Lifetime of Trying to Be a Poet has Taught Me.”
“Depend upon it, Sir,” Dr. Johnson declared, “A man who is tired of London is tired of life.” He was right.
Heathrow, July, 2004
The list of things we could not do was hard
Enough to try the patience of a Job:
Shakespeare at the reconstructed Globe;
The rhythmic changing of the Palace Guard;
The Tower, residence of the ill-starred;
St. Paul’s, Westminster Abbey, cross and robe;
The British Museum, endlessly to probe
That monument to manuscript and shard.
A plane that came too late on the first day
And one that left too early on the next
Produced a situation that was rife
With disappointment—but what could we say?
Dr. Johnson would have known why we were vexed:
“A man who’s tired of London’s tired of life.”
Remember: for more poetry like this, order Dr. Williams’s collected poetry, Stars through the Clouds, 2nd edition (Lantern Hollow Press, 2020) at https://smile.amazon.com/dp/173286800X?ref_=pe_3052080_397514860!