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Life for me Ernest Hemingway
Is merely pretence, Would listen to my plight,
It never seems And know how I’ve suffered
To make much sense.From merely being alive.
Joy of living Kipling and Keats
Is known by others, Yes and Longfellow too,
But somehow in life Would all know of the pain
I always suffer. That life put me through.
I’m told that love Hardy and Dante
Can bring great joy, And even Robert Blair,
Yet to my women Would think of my life
I’m but a toy. With such utter despair.
They use me as Thomas Moore, yes
Other men use them, And Alexander Pope,
Paying me back Would know I’ve lived life
For their other men. Without purpose or hope.
Life must surely be George Santayana
A wondrous thing, And even Walter Scott,
For the very few that Knew of the good things
Love doesn’t sting. My life never got.
Oscar Wilde would Robert Louie Stevenson
Surely cry for me, And the great Mark Twain,
For we poets know Would know that my life
A common need. Has been one long, sad refrain.
Shakespeare tooSalvador Quasimodo
Would surely moan,And Upton Sinclair,
For all the pleasureHave tasted the success
I’ve never known.That for me wasn’t there.
George Bernard Shaw Milton and Priestly
Would sob with shame, Would see with remorse,
Muttering again All the troubles I’ve met
And again my name. On my life’s sorry course.
Alfred Tennyson tooOrwell and Huxley
Would moan my strife,And perhaps Tolstoy too,
For, for me sufferingWould mourn for my life
Is a way of life.Now that it is through.
© Copyright 2021, Philip Roberts
Melbourne, Victoria, Australia
About this poem
One of my more moody existential poems from the 1980s.
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