I sat and stared awhile ago at large red volume labeled:
“The Works of Shakespeare”, and beside, a book containing fabled
And famous verse by famous men, who’ve since seen heav’n’s portal–
By Wordsworth, Byron, Dryden, Gray, and Shelley the immortal.
I pondered deep and wondered long, my thoughts beyond the ages,
And questioned Muse of distant past, she who inspired those pages;
I asked, “Did poets then, as now, go mad from rude distractions?
Wert pestered, griped, and much annoyed by wordly, loud attractions?
“If so, how’ d poet ever fill a book like that before us,
When we can’t concentrate at all, amid this Anvil Chorus?
Did poet have a soundproof cell, a sort of bomb-proof shelter
Where he could sit and ruminate away from helter-skel ter?”
Before my eyes the Muse appeared, her eyes inflamed from weeping,
And said in sad and broken voice, “My boy, thy mind needs sweeping;
The cobwebs clutter up thy brain–whatever ails thy thinker?
The answer’s there and plain to see, thou would-be poet-stinker!
“The olden poets are no more: their work was truly hi-test
Beside the Junlkand droopy stuff–the kind of trash thou writest.
For man will never concentrate– I say he simply can’t, sir;
He’s built himself a handicap–the radio’s the answer.”
Full serious suddenly she turned–sparks flashed from eyes now drying:
“We Muses here to whom thou turn famire thee much for trying,
But feature Shakespeare, Shelley, Keats composing super-duper
With radio’s god-awful blast inducing super-stupor!”
With that dread thought she hiccuped once then wagged a gentle finger:
“Jack Armstrong’s coming on anon, or I would with thee linger–
Muse-land’s changed some too, you know,
We also have our radio!”
So she may sit a-listening to her set up in our attic– But I don’t call her any more, -to her I’d just be static!
by Ray Romine Monday, September 1, 1941