The Whitby

By Me

Whitby, Whitby, always right,
Would you help me see the light,
What immortal brain or eye
Could understand this poetry?

In what mortal state of mind
The answer will I ever find?
On what terms dare I aspire?
What the hand dare seize the fire?

And what terminology
Could twist the sinews of thy heart?
And when thy hand begin to mark,
What dread hand and what dread luck?

What the red mark? what the hell?
My brain is an empty shell?
What the anvil? What dread grasp
Dare its deadly terrors clasp?

When the pen bled on paper,
And I prayed to my maker,
Did He smile to what I have?
Did He who made the A make the F?

Whitby, Whitby, always right
Would you help me see the light,
What immortal brain or eye
Dare understand this poetry?

obviously this is a pathetic parody [because i honestly i don't understand what half of Blake's The Tyger is about] but just so you know why i'm doing this rubbish - The Tyger came out for lit paper today. and even though i didn't choose to do it, and did something else, today's prac crit traumatized me sufficiently.

p.s: APPRECIATE THAT I KEPT TO THE RHYME SCHEME AND METER OF THE THING. i'm sorry if this offends anyone who idolizes william blake, but honestly i'm just frustrated and need to let it out by doing rubbish like this. also, if you don't know what i'm talking about, do note that whitby is my lit8 teacher.

+ posted by M @ 7:49 PM