Poetry: Not Waving But Drowning

Not Waving But Drowning

Nobody heard him, the dead man,
But still he lay moaning:
I was much farther out than you thought
And not waving but drowning.
Poor chap, he always loved larking
And now he's dead
It must have been too cold for him his heart gave way,
They said.
Oh, no no no, it was too cold always
(Still the dead one lay moaning)
I was much too far out all my life
And not waving but drowning.

Florence Margaret “Stevie” Smith (1902-1971)

1957

The following is quoted from: http://asms.k12.ar.us/classes/humanities/britlit/97-98/smith/smith3.htm

"Not Waving But Drowning" is a poem about unheard cries for help. The speaker feels that her attempts to call attention to her unhappiness are overlooked as mere "larking." All her life, she was "much farther out" than her friends thought, "And not waving but drowning." The speaker wanted help, but her efforts were disregarded as jokes. The old man for whom it was too cold and "his heart gave way" probably died from loneliness. The speaker's statement that "it was too cold always" show that she feels chronic despair.

As a matter of interest, Stevie Smith suffered from depression for most of her life, endured a nervous breakdown and died of a brain tumour.

Poetry: Ozymandias / Percy Bysshe Shelley (1792-1822)

I met a traveler from an antique land
Who said: "Two vast and trunkless legs of stone
Stand in the desert. Near them on the sand,
Half sunk, a shattered visage lies, whose frown
And wrinkled lip and sneer of cold command
Tell that its sculptor well those passions read
Which yet survive, stamped on these lifeless things,
The hand that mocked them and the heart that fed.
And on the pedestal these words appear:
`My name is Ozymandias, King of Kings:
Look on my works, ye mighty, and despair!'
Nothing beside remains. Round the decay
Of that colossal wreck, boundless and bare,
The lone and level sands stretch far away.

(Ozymandias was an alternative name for Ramesses 11, 1279-1213BC, often regarded as Egypt's greatest, most celebrated and most powerful pharaoh).

Poetry: Janet Minor / Spell Check

I have a spelling checker
It came with my PC;
It plainly marks four my revue
Mistakes I cannot sea.
I’ve run this poem threw it,
I’m sure your pleased too no,
Its letter perfect in it’s weigh,
My checker tolled me sew.

Poetry: The Blind Rower / Wildred Wilson Gibson

The following poem was originally posted for Fathers Day:

The Blind Rower
- Wilfred Wilson Gibson

And since he rowed his father home,
His hand has never touched an oar.
All day he wanders on the shore,
And hearkens to the swishing foam.
Though blind from birth, he still could row
As well as any lad with sight;
And knew strange things that none may know
Save those who live without the light.