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The Marshes of My Soul
(With apologies to the latest School of Decoratively- Melancholy Introspectives.)
I.
Brackish …brackish,
The Pools of Weariness, flung in a glimmering chain
Reach the horizon.
And my thoughts, like purple parrots
Brood
In the sick, light trees
Blowing above those shallow pools
In whorls and whorls
Noiselessly
Printing a monotonous pattern upon the heavy air
Like watery curves upon the silken robe of a dying Mandarin.
II.
I am a peg, pinning up
Nebulous shadows of half guessed moods
Along the clothesline of "Let's-be-Clever."
Sometimes (ah - rape of the Muse by the cold fingered--)
Doubt takes me.
I wonder
If all these mists and moods and parrots mean
Much?
Cheap shot: you'd win cachet if (rather than going for the clunking obvious a la daily Mail) you'd shown parody of Hardy x
The journalism course was also taken by Patricia Rubinstein, later renowned for her up-market school stories under the pseudonym Antonia Forest.
The parody seems a mish mash of Imagism and Edith Sitwell. Certainly the parrots are pure Sitwell.