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HUMOUROUS SKETCHES.

s (by EsSOM.) No. I.—"My Jsx»erience as a Poet"

In this go-ahead ffge, 1 mediocrity being of no avail, those who fancy they possess it, or more than it, are inflated with,a Rtrong desire to rank pre-eminent in the calling or line they follow. I repeatedly tried to excel as a poet, but, alas ! the light I felt aglow in irie paled considerably before even the rushlight ones of others, and after sputtering for a short time it finally expired in metaphorical agony, blown out by editorial contempt. The following giv6s an account of my brief poetical career. If any reader is tickled into laughter by it my trouble in writing it will be amply repaid by the mirth its perusal provokes :—My aunt was a poetess of acknowledged merit, and I tried to imitate her published efforts. Behold, in my poetical efforts the prosodical part of English grammar mutilated almost to murdering. I see and own my folly now, but in the full glow of superabundant ambition I was in my own idea simply unapproachable. My first essay in the art of versification was of an amorous nature. I composed with infinite trouble and unrest an elaborate poem addressed to "Kitty," the daughter of our minister. When that poem was first written I cherished it as a marvel of erudition. All my labour was in vain. Kitty never saw it. Only the first verso met the light of publicity. The paper I sent it to printed the firgt verse, and commented on it thus : " We have received some original verses by " Essoin,' of which we publish the first to show the reason why we reject them, In the cause of morality we must decline to fmblish the poetical description of a young ady who delights, so the author of the poem says, ra singing " low songs of lingering melody." Were we to encourage it, that " low, lingering melody" would be the ruin of our paper. ' Low songs of lingering melody' would become the fashion, and then —no ! no! Kitty's morality must improve before we introduce her to the public. Thou amorous poet of Kitty show not Kitty the poem. Our readers will at once see the truth and justice of our remarks by glancing at the following" : TO KITTY. Kitty I Kitty ! Blithe and pretty ; Light trippingo'er the verdant lea ; Thy soft ringing Sweet voice singing " Low" songs of ling'nng melody. I daresay I had revised and copied the poem fifty times, yet I committed the flagrant error of describing Kitty—who was a clergyman's daughter, a regular church attendant, a Sunday-school teacher, a tract distributer, a choir singer—as delighting to sing—what? "low"songs. Oh ! ye gods ! The idea I intended, and thought I had expressed, was to convey a sense of maiden simplicity in her singing, all notes of the tunes she sang being within the unstrained compass of a youthful damsel's voice. I took the editor's advice and suppressed the poem.

The next efforts of my I muse sent to the Royal Standard, for that journal set apart a column dedicated to the " tuneful nine." After making ten copies of two short pieces, I selected those that had the best chirographical appearance. In the darkness of the evening I furtively dropped them into the editor's box, and peeping down the slit after, I saw the aperture at the bottom of the letter-box open and, by the light that gleamed from the office into it, beheld a hand fringed with a white cuff take the letter out, and heard a voice exclaim : '' A weighty letter ; I hope there is some good 'copy' in it." Still standing there with an ear attentively stretched at the orifice for the reception of editorial correspondence, I heard a sound as of the opening of an envelope, and simultaneously with that imagined action, this emphatic expression, " More infernal poetry, by gad." I awaited the next issue of that paper with the same anxiety which I presume young ladies experience on St. Valentine's Day—wishing for a valentine, but despairing of receiving one. The paper was published at eight o'clock at night. I obtained a copy, which I placed in the bosom of my waistcoat, and immediately hurried from the hurly burly of that town to the calm serenity of its suburban semi-solitude. It was a moonlight night. I opened the paper, but my eagerly expectant eyesight beheld no poetry. The poetry column would have been a white blank but for these four words : " ' Essom ' in our next." I was elated. A whole column devoted to answering me. Looking up at the moon, whose soft brightness seemed to confer an encouragement to metre on, I made a wild vow, whish as yet has never been accomplished even in its smallest part. With buoyant heart I awaited the next issue of the paper, and on its appearance beheld my idolised muse thus degraded. My manuscript ran : He told his love. Ho often said, He could not love me any more, E'en I by right upon my head, A coronet of jewels wore. His tenderness and words so kind, Awoke my virgin love to life ; Sweet feelings hidden in my mind, Rushed to my heart in pleasing strife. The printed version was as follows : He tore his glove and crossly said, He would not love me any more ; Unless I at night upon his head, A cocoanut of gruel pour. His testiness and words unkind ; Awoke a vicious thought to life : Swelled with rage I'd half a mind To truss him with a carving knife. In the second piece, the manuscript ran : The sun's perpendicular rays Illumine the depths of the sea, And dancing In the sunny gleam The waves are holding revelry.

The printed version was : The sun's perpendicular rays Illumine the depths of the sea, And the fishes beginning to sweat, Cry! Hang it! how hot we shall be,

In my anger I lifted up my voice and by bo "doing added a ton or two to the enormous heap of sin already lying at my door. I jingled again. The paper inserted my productions this time without any alterations or errors, or, as a cynic said, wonderful and unique improvements Now I dubbed myself a heavenborn genius. I compared my productions with those of famous poets and my criticism was in favour of my own. I glanced on all around with pitying patronage and smiled to think upon the universal homage soon to be paid to a poet as yet but limitedly known as "Essoin." I walked the earth with metrical steps, thereby composing a wordless poem of infinite profundity. There is no doubt I was fast verging into that state of mind which would have rendered me incapable of quietly performing the duties of my state in life, and the encouragement given by publication was highly incentive for the furtherance of that condition. Some local hits I wrote for a (xarrick club performance were so appreciated by the public that his Worship the Mayor interviewed me the next day and performed an operation on my left eye which lias spoilt my beauty for ever. To further show his appreciation of the efforts of my quill, the Mayor also interviewed the chap who sang the local rhymes at the performance, and now that sweet warbler is doomed to travel the rest of his weary way through life on crutches. At last local fame became too trying for me. I therefore resolved to offer my stock of verses for sale, foolishly thinking such gems would be immediately snapped up. I sent a roll of poetry to the editor of a leading newspaper. He replied to my offer in the following manner : " Your poetry is grand. Iks subjects well chosen. Its peculiar manner of metre causes us, with expectant surprise, to hail you as a new apostle of an entirely new school of versification. With deep regret we own it is beyond us to accept your offer. The ridiculously modest sum you fix as its price is not to be found, even in our till—and we have not banked for a fortnight. The—to use a fit and proper qualifying adjective—electric light of your genius, •.as expressed in your verses, would destroy : our paper. The ink of our common prose would pale, wither, and disappear beside it. We venture not to insult you by negotiating the purchase of your works by instalments. Our paper being only a onehorse limited liability concern, we cannot close with your magnanimous offer." That editor has he condemned in a seventy-line poem of blank verse, and its publication is only necessary to ensure his complete, terr,estial annihilation. Sixteen times thas'he !; attached' to my name the beautiful legend, "Declined with thanks." I.do:not.write poetry now.

Permanent link to this item
Hononga pūmau ki tēnei tūemi

https://paperspast.natlib.govt.nz/newspapers/WT18840816.2.38

Bibliographic details
Ngā taipitopito pukapuka

Waikato Times, Volume XXIII, Issue 1890, 16 August 1884, Page 4

Word count
Tapeke kupu
1,461

HUMOUROUS SKETCHES. Waikato Times, Volume XXIII, Issue 1890, 16 August 1884, Page 4

HUMOUROUS SKETCHES. Waikato Times, Volume XXIII, Issue 1890, 16 August 1884, Page 4

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