ORIGINAL VERSE

Southland Times, Issue 21431, 27 June 1931, Page 18

ORIGINAL VERSE

Cousin Margaret Jellyman, who has learnt a lot about the technical side of verse, making, and is developing her ideas nicely, appears to find it a simple matter to express herself lucidly and fluently in rhymed lines. “Why Worry” is a splendid example of her work, which is showing what I like best to see—definite signs of progress from week to week. WHY WORRY? When winter storms are raging, and the sun is out of sight, Don’t let yourself be gloomy for a frown is never right, There are lots of things to do of which I’m sure you'll never tire, They can all be done in comfort too, beside a cosy fire. Good books to read and games to play, so never mind the rain, But chase the cobwebs and the frown and polish up your brain, For it’s only when we’re lazy, that gloomy thoughts come near, They won’t come if we’re busy—there’s no room for them, my dear. So make the grey days brighter friend, and wear a sunny smile, Just get to work in earnest for you’ll find it’s well worth while For the days will fly so quickly you’ll forget about the rain Till you find the winter past and gone and summer here again. —4 marks to Cousin Margaret Jellyman (10), Queen street, Otautau. "Dusk” is one of the best poems Cousin Nan Columb has. yet sent me. It has good atmosphere, and a good sense of rhythm, although there is a bar dropped in the third last line which would be better there. DUSK. Hush! the day is dying, And 'neath a shadowed sky The breeze is softly sighing— A stream goes rippling by. The swish of weeping willows, A silent world once gay, The sound of sweeping billows Fills all the air to-day. The breeze is sweetly singing Amidst the tree-tops red, The birds are slowly winging Their way home to bed. We hear the brook still babbling; But alas! the day is dead. —3 marks to Cousin Nan Columb (16), 106 Broughton street, Gore. Here is quite the best poem, too, that Cousin Ada Hodgkinson has written so far — a quiet, reflective little poem which she has handled well. Well done, my dear LIFE. How often do we stray ’Midst flowers or swaying trees; But how little do we think Of Him who made all these. Of Him who made the fields In which we love to play, And who is watching us Doing our work each day. He who sent His only Son To die on Calvary, Loves each one of us , No matter who we be. ’Though it’s not always easy To lead an upright life Soon it will be over, When joy will end the strife. • —3 marks to Cousin Ada Hodgkinson (14), Waikaka. Cousin Vita Nelson catches, but still does not wholly retain, rbythm, with the result that her poems still need polishing up when they reach me. But she is trying, which is the main thing, and there is a quite noticeable improvement in her poem this week. THE MOLLYMAWK A beautiful bird is the mollymawk As he peacefully sits on the rocking sea, He cares not for trees nor for land, For his home is the ocean so free. A graceful bird is the Mollymawk As he goes gliding over the foam; I wish I had wings like a Mollymawk, Then over the wide-world I’d roam. A powerful bird is the Mollymawk As he flies forth into the gale; He cares not a bit how stormy the weather, Scorning the wind, rain and driving hail. —2 marks to Cousin Vita Nelson (15), Green Point, Ocean Beach Cousin Marion McLean, who appears to write easily, has made “A Little Revel” a charming fragment. It would be a splendid thing to illustrate. A LITTLE REVEL. One night the elves came out to play And danced and sang until the day Then, sighing, and with drowsy head. Each happy elf flew home to bed. —2 marks to Cousin Marion McLean, (13), 86 Fox Street, Invercargill. I am glad to welcome Cousin Margaret Henderson back to this column again, and I enjoyed her new effort, although with very little alteration it could be a better poem. She shouldn’t leave two unrhymed lines at the end of her verses like that. They destroy the effect of the earlier rhymes, and particularly at the end of a verse leave it with an unfinished sound. THE FISHERMAN WHO WISHED, Beside the lake, one summer’s day, While gentle breezes blew—Waiting for the fish to bite, Though the fish were few A gentleman was fishing, And also he was wishing That something would happen. For of patience he had none. And as he wished there came along Behind him, quite unseen, A savage bull with lowered head, Who for some sport was keen. Straight at the fisherman he went And struck him—through the air he went, And in the waters of the laka Fell with a splash. —1 mark to Cousin Margaret Henderson (12), 18 Antrim street, North Invercargill. —Two Poems. — ANAGRAM TO FRIENDSHIP. Friends are the dearest things to me, Rows my deadliest enemys, I think they spoil all the fun Especially when a game’s begun, Never quarrel with sister or brother Do what you can for one another; Speak always in a friendly way Home, at school, or when at play I think that you will always find , Pals that are faithful and kind. What a funny world ’twould be If nobody had friends at all, And nobody with whom to chat, ; And nobody to pay a call. What a funny world 'twould be If everybody rowed and fought, And never spoke a civil word And did not think a kindly thought. What a lovely world it is With people doing kindly deeds Helping, perhaps, less fortunate ones And giving them the things they need. —Cousin Vita Nelson . (15), Green Point, Ocean Beach.