Yeats

Surprise, surprise I've never held much patience for poetry. I'd rather say what I mean through plain prose rather than being restricted by rhythm, rhyme and meter. Yet my seminar tutor claimed that English is the only language that falls naturally into iambic pentameter. It is not possible to fit any other language in the world, whether it be French, Greek, Spanish, German , into the tight constraint of Shakespeare's favoured meter. But leaving all that in an imaginary corner, I found a poem I really like, by W.B Yeats of all people:

Broken Dreams

There is grey in your hair.
Young men no longer suddenly catch their breath
When you are passing;
But maybe some old gaffer mutters a blessing
Because it was your prayer
Recovered him upon the bed of death.
For your sole sake - that all heart's ache have known,
And given to others all heart's ache,
From meagre girlhood's putting on
Burdensome beauty - for your sole sake
Heaven has put away the stroke of her doom,
So great her portion in that peace you make
By merely walking in a room.
Your beauty can but leave among us
Vague memories, nothing but memories.
A young man when the old men are done talking
Will say to an old man, "Tell me of that lady
The poet stubborn with his passion sang us
When age might well have chilled his blood.'
Vague memories, nothing but memories,
But in the grave all, all, shall be renewed.
The certainty that I shall see that lady
Leaning or standing or walking
In the first loveliness of womanhood,
And with the fervour of my youthful eyes,
Has set me muttering like a fool.
You are more beautiful than any one,
And yet your body had a flaw:
Your small hands were not beautiful,
And I am afraid that you will run
And paddle to the wrist
In that mysterious, always brimming lake
Where those What have obeyed the holy law
paddle and are perfect. Leave unchanged
The hands that I have kissed,
For old sake's sake.
The last stroke of midnight dies.
All day in the one chair
From dream to dream and rhyme to rhyme I have
ranged
In rambling talk with an image of air:
Vague memories, nothing but memories.

I don't think I'll ruin it with over-analysis.. or rather my very poor analytical skills when it comes to poetry.

In other news, my love of the pub has grown over the past week. The Rusty Bike in Exeter is the only pub I've come across where it is entirely acceptable to play Cluedo and drink lemonade. As welcoming and warm Firehouse might be, it is refreshing to go somewhere where lethal £5 white wine is not a requirement of the night.

I have just observed Emmy's Pennsylvania Road attire: pyjama bottoms tucked into oversized socks, worn with flip-flops. As sad as it may sound, this is a very practical choice of clothing in the current environment; the height of student house couture, dare I say. She could do with another ten jumpers or so though. And possibly some long-johns. After all, the spirit of student housing is apparently to adopt so-called outdoor items for indoor use. I.e - flip flops are to be worn in the shower, not for the beach. Perfectly sane.