THE SONG OF WANDERING AENGUS

The first poem I choose is this:

THE SONG OF WANDERING AENGUS

WB Yeats

I went out to the hazel wood,

Because a fire was in my head,

And cut and peeled a hazel wand,

And hooked a berry to a thread;

And when white moths were on the wing,

And moth-like stars were flickering out,

I dropped the berry in a stream

And caught a little silver trout.

When I had laid it on the floor

I went to blow the fire a-flame,

But something rustled on the floor,

And some one called me by my name:

It had become a glimmering girl

With apple blossom in her hair

Who called me by my name and ran

And faded through the brightening air.

Though I am old with wandering

Through hollow lands and hilly lands,

I will find out where she has gone,

And kiss her lips and take her hands;

And walk among long dappled grass,

And pluck till time and times are done

The silver apples of the moon,

The golden apples of the sun.

From The Wind Among The Reeds (1899)

The Poetry Project

Very often WH Auden is quoted out of context ("For poetry makes nothing happen: it survives/In the valley of its making", 'In memory of WB Yeats', Another Time, Random House, 1940) to end any discussion on the utility of poetry. For years, I have contested this because I believe that poetry makes everything happen — it is the very fabric of human life and society.

Yet, everywhere you look, poetry is under assault: it's study is deemed to be unprofitable, those practicing it are considered to either lazy or weird, and even if one manages to write poems, it is impossible to get it published respectably.

Why?

After contemplation, I have come to the decision that the enormous developments in the field of communication has been the ruin of poetry. The language employed in the construction of poetry is, by nature, the very contradiction of the language of communication. It is an attack on the rational centre that governs the linguistic structures with which we are familiar in our diurnal experiences, and by being, what it's detractors would like to call "obstuse", poetry invites its audience to contemplate.

But contemplation itself is taboo now; we are all men or women of action. We are all slaves of action.

I have, however, decided to break away, to be abnormal, to read at least one poem a day, and to find at least half an hour to contemplate on it. This is my manifesto.

Title: The Poetry Project
Aim: To read/write at least one poem a day and enjoy it

Maybe it will make nothing happen and I shall continue to do this alone till eternity and none of you shall read me. That doesn't matter, it is for my entertainment. But join me if you will, feel free to comment.

New play...

So, I begin to write a new play Reunion. It's a murder mystery.