Poetry Explorer- Classic Contemporary Poetry, SHELLEY IN OUR HOUSE, by JO HARTMAN


Poetry Explorer

Classic and Contemporary Poetry

SHELLEY IN OUR HOUSE, by                    
First Line: He meant to tune his lyre
Last Line: And this was like his yesterday, and day before!
Subject(s): Shelley, William (1816-1819)


He meant to tune his lyre
Today and sing
In sweeping gusts of rhythm, to reach the heights
Of far Parnassus . . . verses that should bring
Him fame and gold, altho his heart's desire
Is all for Beauty -- thro' the livelong nights
Its cadences are ringing in his ears
But, with his failing sight, the doctors say
He ought to do his writing in the day.

When Dawn came, pinkly silver . . . he
Glimpsed wisps of a sun a-shimmering in the hall
And down along the inner wall
Of our house's little court -- you see
His window fronts the fire escape,
Which he weaves into ancient battlements, whose dust
Becomes the "crumbling mould" of years . . .
Eyes glowing, collar half agape,
He flung his chestnut hair
Back from his brow, and snatched his pad and pen
With such an air
Of eagerness as mothers press
Their new-born babes to breast.

Just then --
Our landlord heard him stir --
"Who -- who!" a loud voice called out. "Sure, you must
Come have your coffee, Shelley, soon,"
(That name maybe lured muses, for they were
So bountiful to one who bore it!) "'less
You want a headache!"
Some folks never rest
Till they inflict their favors, and old "Prune"
MacLean -- he served them three times daily -- was this kind,
And yet no meddler, bless his cheery tongue!

How Shelley does hate eating at the table
When he is preening wings of his young mind
To dip in "amethyst of Eastern seas" --
Among
The lot of us none even able
To quote a Sonnet from the Portuguese!
But he sipped several swallows from his cup
Before he dashed up stairs.

For full an hour
He drove to capture lyric threads
His dreams had woven. He got "bright heads
Of orioles" and afterwards a flower,
"A sweet hibiscus-blossom" -- "Tamarind trees
Caressed by soft lips of the desert breeze."

By now blond Milly from the Tivoli,
In the next room, had tumbled out of bed.
Her cheap stage laugh
Cut quiveringly
Across his soul. What had he said
Last? "Breeze?" O God, that phonograph!
She set it going -- Blues on Blues! --
He knew she must be shimmying to the shriek
Of blatant jazz. No decent Muse
Can stand Mill's "atmosphere," nor can poor Shelley eke
Another word from all his golden store . . .
And this was like his yesterday, and day before!





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