Dear William Wordsworth,
A friend visited your home recently and brought back photos of where you wrote your poetry. I, too, am named Wordsworth and I, too, write poetry. Not in an English home such as yours, but in my little mouse hole in Hawaii. Yes, I am a mouse poet.
The 21st century must seem unimaginable compared to your life in the 1700-1800’s.
And yet, Mr. Wordsworth, our poems cross all centuries. Your poem below still speaks of the need to preserve our natural environment, otherwise what images will poets see on a lonely walk? Concrete?
”I wandered lonely as a cloud
That floats on high o’er vales and hills,
When all at once I saw a crowd,
A host, of golden daffodils.”
Contrary to your poem, my poems speak of preserving what was so natural in your century. Mr. Wordsworth, there will be no daffodils in our world soon.
The Bulldozer
there was a place I sat and wrote
to music played in my concert grove.
branches rubbed against branches,
coconuts dropped to the ground.
vines snaked and squeaked their way
seeking the hot noon sun.
frilly fronds danced the wind,
lacy limbs brushed their leaves.
sparrows, mynahs spattered notes
low c’s, high c’s and in-between.
it was a place for violins, cellos,
trombones, flutes, and piccolos, too.
Oh, what music to my ears.
Then the monster came.
gachump!
gachump!
gachump!
he gobbled up notes
oh, what a beast.
he chomped and crushed,
grunted and groaned,
belched and gobbled
everything in sight.
oh, what a monster,
oh what a beast
to eat my trees.
to eat my trees.
Wordsworth fell asleep thinking, “Gachump, Gachump.”
from Wordsworth! Stop the Bulldozer!
It is an honor bearing your name, Mr. Wordsworth.
Aloha,
Wordsworth the mouse poet.
