FROM MY WINDOW.

Shannon News, 23 May 1922, Page 4

FROM MY WINDOW.

No. XVIII. —POETRY AND PROSE

' (By “ETERA.”) “A primrose by the river’s brim A yellow primrose ’tis to him; And it is nothing more.”

This man walks along with eyes on ground, seeing nothing but mud and marks of others’ footsteps, quite oblivious of the sun shining through a cloud, or a skylark bursting wth song. In contradiction of him - s f he man who took my hand when 1 was a kiddie knd said, “Close your eyes for a minute and I’ll show you the most beautiful thing in the "'world.” Then he led me up to a little baby lying in a perambulator. I must confess I did not appreciate his judgment as much then as I do now. My childish imagination ran rather to things golden, things silvern, or at all events something spangly like the lovely lady in the circus who could jump through burning hoops while riding, and still retain her equipoise and spangles. Nay, more; could even deign to kiss her two fingers like a butterfly to the applauding onlookers —granting that butterflies could ki's their fingers an they would! As firbabies; couldn’t they be seen at anytime? Why, we had one in our own home, and although he was the most beautiful thing >in the world when one came to .think of it, he was sadly lacking in spangles or burning hoops, and his slobbery kisses were more fervent than butterfly-like in their bestowal.

The world must be balanced by the existence of .all kinds and conditions of natures, but the nature that contains the best balance within itself is the happiest. For instance, too much prose in one’s composition leads lo all work and no play; whereas too much poetry may mean no dinner cooked, and the consequent breakup of a home. There is a time to be practical, a time for rhapsody, a time to be frivolous. At a picnic once a glorious sunset was viewed which inspired a standing member of the party, given more to words than deeds, to wave his arms and quote poetry. A practical girt near at hand, whose work in life: at that time was to he! ) her father and mother eke out a din toutive Government s.vary, turned to him quietly and said, “Have you ever tried a little hard ;vork lor that, Mr X.” • I have some violets bunched in front of me as I write. How do deferent natures gaze upon them, and what do they say? The passer-by says: “What a glorious scent!” Ihe artist: “How divinely fair!” ' The philosopher: “How prolific in tarlr generous flowering!” The bee: “Howuseful!” While a poet says—

“I know, blue modest violet, * Gleaming with dew at morn— I know the place you came from .. And the way that vou are horn!

“When God cuts holes in Heaven— The holes that stars look through— He lets the scraps fall down to eerth. And the little scraps are you!”

The Covent Market gardener looks at his blooms and says:. “Let’s see, prices are down a bit to-day. I shan’t make so much out of this crop as yesterday’s.” And in a northern town the casual gardener (very much so about the feet) coining at the end of the season, says: “Ah, yes, these have to be thinned.” And forthwith carries the “thinning” process to within an inch of their lives. It reminds me of Barry Pain’s jobb'ng man, who says, ‘ilf I says that plant won’t live over Christmas, you may be sure it won’t!” %

Four children paired off once and formed two gardens. Competition, which wrew very keen, reached the climax when the manly brain of the quartette decided that the supreme test of the gardens’ superiority should be proved by number of violets found on a certain day. Ninety-two blooms proved the winners, with eighty-six a scented second; and a mother reaped the benefit of industry by the receipt of two beautiful bunches. I should like to tell y u more of the laudable ongoings of these four children; but, alas! All that rishes to mind concerns their finding, behind a protecting fence, a nestful of highly questionable eggs, which were used as hand grenades again-:! enemy schoolboys; clandestine ro-st-ing of potatoes in a forbidden openair Are; playing truant from school by the already-mentioned manly mem ber; and such things from which not an atom of poetry can'be squeezed. So I refrain.

Poetry, like its sister-art, Music, enters into our lives at the time of great joy or great sorrow, when prose alone proves inadequate to interpret our feelings; and poets, whose function is to say for us whati we think but cannot say for ourselyes, are

called upon to express our noblest thoughts.

Some of us pooh pooh the idea of poetry, saying it is only tor youth, or for the leisured ones; 1 ttle realising how deeply poetry is blended with the prose of life. , If wS? tried to eliminate quotations from Shakespeare alone, in our every-day reading, the result would surprise us. It is when we hear “Hamlet” or any other well known play that the familiarity of expressions comes home t<> us, and we feel as if we were greeting old friends. ■ * * * * *

In reading, if we were to place inverted commas around, all of the quotations used, the result be a book looking as if it were l in the midst of an attack of black measles; and we would feel justified in sterilising it at first sight.

How often does one quote from a fairly modern writer, to find later on that writer himself has appropriated the spying from Socrates, Epictetus, or one of the Plinys, or, far more common still, from the Bible? I have in my autograph book a quotation attributed to “Evangeline” that I know may be found in one of St. Paul’s pastoral letters.

How full of poetry could be the description of London as it exists today, with its wealth of history, its old buildings, objects of art, ancient and modern costumes, old documents, etc. And yet this was the 1 answer given by one who had recently returned from the Homeland. After years of toil at heavy physical work, a man was enabled to'use-some of his wages upon a trip to England.

When he went to investigate the reason for a crowd in a leading street in Melbourne, a constable found that the centre of interest Was a young | woman who. displayed . bare knees. ? She wore a very short frock reaching j to her knees, and her stockings were j rolled down below the knees. The j crowd continued to grow, and the constable questioned the young woman. “Are you an advertisement for anything?” he asked suspiciously, indicating her knees. The young wo man assured the constable that she I was only an American tourist. “I I can’t understand what interests the

crowd,” she said. “Why, in. New York City everyone is bare knees. It Is fashionable *to have them rouged and tattooed. I wonder what they would say if I powdered them as we do in the United States of America?” She a powder puff, but the'constable waited for no more, and busied himself with moving on the crowd.

His master, kept his position open l'cr him and gave him something towards the trip. On his return the master said, “Well, how did you enjoy yourself and. what did you learn?” “Ob, it was fine, sir. London’s a grand place, Er—er—Oh, yes it’s a fine ~ place.” Then, 'brightening up: “I found out where you can get a glass of real old English ale!”

I’m afraid this man’s poetry had not reached beyond the “Mary had a litt'e lamb” stage, and only as far as this, moreover, because of its possible accompaniment of mint sauce. However, os Socrates did not say: “A nod’s as good as a wink to a blind horse.' So one must have the seeing eye and understanding heart. The poet hears the. storm-cloud muttering, and secs the moonlight sleeping on the bank, the engineer sees electricity in the same storm-cloud, arid sees sunlight stimulating vegetable growth; each interpreting Nature according to his own mental outlook.

“Whene’er a noble deed is wrought, Whene’er is spoken a noble thought, Our hearts in glad surprise To- higher levels rise.” “Honour to those whose words m deeds Thus help ( us in our daily needs, And by their overflow Raise us‘from what is low.