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The Wanderings of A Mind

While daydreaming just yesterday I tried to recall the things that my Father had either told me directly or had spoken of within my earshot. A poem, seemingly nonsense verse, came to mind. I was astounded at my powers of recall when, as I recited it out loud it just came to me in a steady flow. Here it is, in all of its finery, just as my Father recited it to me some fifty odd years ago. When I was a boy in short pants. The poetic license taken with time and perception made me think of the concept “the end of nowhere” hence my title for this poem by an unknown pen. I would dearly love to sit and chew the fat with the person who wrote this but I fear that the author is long dead.

 

T’was a fine Octobers’ morning in April last July

The sun lay thick upon the ground

The snow shone in the sky

The flowers were sweetly singing

The birds were in full bloom

As I went down the cellar

To sweep the upstairs room

The time was Tuesday morning

On Wednesday late at night

I saw 10,000 miles away

A house, just out of sight

The doors projected backwards

The front was at the back

It stood alone between two more

And was whitewashed; Black

Author: Unknown. © Unclaimed – Old Traditional Writing

The distortion of ‘reality’ and the matter-of-fact depiction of the impossible are literally fantastic. For only in a Fantasy World could the months be entwined, the sun, snow, flowers and birds reverse their places and at an impossible time, the narrator see something 10,000 miles away! It reminds me of Lewis Carrol’s Alice stories. The suspension of belief and the impossible made mundane makes for a quite delightful little story. Perhaps reminiscent of a gentle “acid trip” or a hallucination thanks to Magic mushrooms or Mescaline.

Phantasmagorical imagery coupled with rhythmic flow makes this little poem a poem that I wish I had written. I hope that you enjoy it anyway as I’ve unknowingly kept this to myself, although it’s not mine, for over half a century. I just wish that I could find out who wrote it as I would like to see the credit go where it is due. My father is now 96 years old and he remembers this poem as something his English master posed to his class at school. That must be about 84 years ago and it wasn’t new even then. So heavens knows how old this little poem is but I love it.

Peter Mark Wells-Garnett © 01 March 2017

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