April 2016
I am Sam Gwynn, but I prefer to be called "R. S." I live in Beaumont, Texas, from which I shall probably be retired by the time you read this. Actually, I plan to stay in Beaumont, known as "the armpit of the Gulf Coast," and retire from Lamar University, "Princeton on the Neches,"where I have taught since returning from the Spanish-American War. I am a literary man of parts, some visible and some private. I wish I could get back to my home state, North Carolina, but I cannot find my birth certificate, which I understand is now mandatory for entering and using public restrooms there. I have a really nice boat for sale for a mere $7500. Tweet me if interested, #ltsalam
Approaching a Significant Birthday,
He Peruses The Norton Anthology of Poetry
All human things are subject to decay.
Beauty is momentary in the mind.
The curfew tolls the knell of parting day.
If Winter comes, can Spring be far behind?
Forlorn! the very word is like a bell
And somewhat of a sad perplexity.
Here, take my picture, though I bid farewell,
In a dark time the eye begins to see
The woods decay, the woods decay and fall—
Bare ruined choirs where late the sweet birds sang.
What but design of darkness to appall?
An aged man is but a paltry thing.
If I should die, think only this of me:
Crass casualty obstructs the sun and rain
When I have fears that I may cease to be,
To cease upon the midnight with no pain
And hear the spectral singing of the moon
And strictly meditate the thankless muse.
The world is too much with us, late and soon.
It gathers to a greatness, like the ooze.
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Fame is no plant that grows on mortal soil.
Again he raised the jug up to the light:
Old age hath yet his honor and his toil.
Downward to darkness on extended wings,
Break, break, break, on thy cold gray stones, O sea,
And tell sad stories of the death of kings.
I do not think that they will sing to me.
Editor's Note: For information about the sources of the lines of this cento please see Stephen Saperstein
Frug's blog post from March 2011: http://stephenfrug.blogspot.com/2011/03/sourcing-superlative-cento-accidental.html
-from No Word of Farewell: New and Selected Poems 1970-2000. Story Line Press, 2001.
Lives
Reading the life of wretched Huge
Is like a trip by two-man luge
Rocketing down a gelid track
With him in front and you in back.
He steers while you must play the stooge Compressed as if by centrifuge
Against the sheer and frozen wall
At speeds that surely must appall.
To turn instead and read of Small
Does not inspire much thrill at all,
For Small lived tight within his means,
Laboring at his hills of beans.
Avoiding every sort of brawl
Until he heard the trumpet’s call,
He lived aloof from Huge’s scenes
With princes, potentates, and queens.
Who envied whom? Did Huge think Small,
Awash in smoke and alcohol,
The greater or the lesser man?
Was Huge some sort of charlatan
Who stood in stature stout and tall
But didn’t measure up to Small?
If one is good, who’s better-than?
Ask God to judge them, if She can.
He Peruses The Norton Anthology of Poetry
All human things are subject to decay.
Beauty is momentary in the mind.
The curfew tolls the knell of parting day.
If Winter comes, can Spring be far behind?
Forlorn! the very word is like a bell
And somewhat of a sad perplexity.
Here, take my picture, though I bid farewell,
In a dark time the eye begins to see
The woods decay, the woods decay and fall—
Bare ruined choirs where late the sweet birds sang.
What but design of darkness to appall?
An aged man is but a paltry thing.
If I should die, think only this of me:
Crass casualty obstructs the sun and rain
When I have fears that I may cease to be,
To cease upon the midnight with no pain
And hear the spectral singing of the moon
And strictly meditate the thankless muse.
The world is too much with us, late and soon.
It gathers to a greatness, like the ooze.
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Fame is no plant that grows on mortal soil.
Again he raised the jug up to the light:
Old age hath yet his honor and his toil.
Downward to darkness on extended wings,
Break, break, break, on thy cold gray stones, O sea,
And tell sad stories of the death of kings.
I do not think that they will sing to me.
Editor's Note: For information about the sources of the lines of this cento please see Stephen Saperstein
Frug's blog post from March 2011: http://stephenfrug.blogspot.com/2011/03/sourcing-superlative-cento-accidental.html
-from No Word of Farewell: New and Selected Poems 1970-2000. Story Line Press, 2001.
Lives
Reading the life of wretched Huge
Is like a trip by two-man luge
Rocketing down a gelid track
With him in front and you in back.
He steers while you must play the stooge Compressed as if by centrifuge
Against the sheer and frozen wall
At speeds that surely must appall.
To turn instead and read of Small
Does not inspire much thrill at all,
For Small lived tight within his means,
Laboring at his hills of beans.
Avoiding every sort of brawl
Until he heard the trumpet’s call,
He lived aloof from Huge’s scenes
With princes, potentates, and queens.
Who envied whom? Did Huge think Small,
Awash in smoke and alcohol,
The greater or the lesser man?
Was Huge some sort of charlatan
Who stood in stature stout and tall
But didn’t measure up to Small?
If one is good, who’s better-than?
Ask God to judge them, if She can.
©2016 R. S. Gwynn