The Art and Craft of Poetry. Michael R. Collings

      My little Son, who looked from thoughtful eyes

      And moved and spoke in quiet grown-up wise,

      Having my law the seventh time disobeyed,

      I struck him, and dismissed

      With hard words and unkissed,

      His Mother, who was patient, being dead.

      Then, fearing lest his grief should hinder sleep,

      I visited his bed,

      But found him slumbering deep,

      With darkened eyelids, and their lashes yet

      From his late sobbing wet.

      And I, with moan,

      Kissing away his tears, left others of my own;

      For on a table drawn beside his head,

      He had put, within his reach,

      A box of counters and a red-veined stone,

      A piece of glass abraded by the beach,

      And six or seven shells,

      A bottle with bluebells,

      And two French copper coins, ranged there with careful art,

      To comfort his sad heart.

      So when that night I prayed

      To God, I wept, and said:

      Ah, when at last we lie with trancéd breath,

      Not vexing Thee in death,

      And thou rememberest of what toys

      We made our joys,

      How weakly understood

      Thy great commanded good,

      Then, fatherly not less

      Than I whom Thou has moulded from the clay,

      Thou’lt leave Thy wrath, and say,

      “I will be sorry for their childishness.”

      IS THERE ROOM IN ANGEL LAND?

      “These lines were written after hearing the following touching incident related by a minister. A mother, who was preparing some flour to bake into bread, left it for a moment, when little Mary, with child­ish curiosity to see what it was, took hold of the dish, when it fell to the floor, spilling the contents. The mother struck the child a severe blow, saying, with anger, that she was always in the way. Two weeks after, little Mary sickened and died. On her death-bed, while delirious, she asked her mother if there would be room for her among the angels. ‘I was always in your way, mother; you had no room for little Mary! And will I be in the angels’ way? Will they have no room for me?’ The broken-hearted mother then felt no sacrifice would be too great, could she have saved her child.”

      Is there room among the angels

      For the spirit of your child?

      Will they take your little Mary

      In their loving arms so mild?

      Will they ever love me fondly,

      As my story-books have said?

      Will they find a home for Mary—

      Mary, numbered with the dead?

      Tell me truly, darling mother!

      Is there room for such as me?

      Will I gain the home of spirits,

      And the shining angels see?

      I have sorely tried you, mother,

      Been to you a constant care,

      And you will not miss me, mother,

      When I dwell among the fair;

      For you have no room for Mary;

      She was ever in your way;

      And fears the good will shun her!

      Will they, darling mother, say?

      Tell me—tell me truly—mother,

      Ere life’s closing hour doth come,

      Do you think that they will keep me

      In the shining angels’ home?

      I was not so wayward, mother,

      Nor so very—very bad,

      But that tender love would nourish,

      And make Mary’s heart so glad!

      Oh! I yearned for pure affection,

      In this world of bitter woe;

      And I long for bliss immortal,

      In the land where I must go!

      Tell me once again, dear mother,

      Ere you take the parting kiss,

      Will the angels bid me welcome,

      To that land of perfect bliss?

      LITTLE BOY BLUE

      The little toy dog is covered with dust,

      But sturdy and staunch he stands;

      And the little toy soldier is red with rust,

      And his musket moulds in his hands.

      Time was when the little toy dog was new,

      And the soldier was passing fair;

      And that was the time when our Little Boy Blue

      Kissed them and put them there.

      “Now, don’t you go till I come,” he said,

      “And don’t you make any noise!”

      So, toddling off to his trundle-bed,

      He dreamt of the pretty toys;

      And, as he was dreaming, an angel song

      Awakened our Little Boy Blue—

      Oh! the years are many, the years are long,

      But the little toy friends are True!

      Ay, faithful to Little Boy Blue they stand,

      Each in the same old place—

      Awaiting the touch of a little hand,

      The smile of a little face;

      And they wonder as waiting the long years through

      In the dust of the little chair,

      What has become of our Little Boy Blue

      Since he kissed them and put them there.

      Lineation

      Lineation refers to choice of line length, a technique essential to much mod­ern poetry, which often relies heavily on place­ment on the page, length of lines, and physical presentation. Compare, for exam­ple, poetry by Walt Whitman, Mari­anne Moore, and Allen Ginsberg, with their long lines and biblical cadences that sweep majestically from margin to margin; poems such as Susan Musgrave’s “Lure” (TBAP 882) or William Carlos Wil­liams’ “The Red Wheelbarrow” and “This Is Just To Say,” which often seem to hug the left-hand margin of the page; and poems by Lawrence Ferlinghetti, Judith Rodriguez, and others which seem scattered almost at random, with lines punctuating ex­panses of white space.

      The poet’s choice of form often dictates basic line length, how­ever, particu­larly in traditional metrical forms. Note the different ef­fects in the following po­ems:

      M

      i

      A thousand wives lie close to heart,

      intimáte,

      shape shivering breasts to word-dream

      couplings,