Hope

Hope
I
They say hope is a thing with feathers —
but how daft is that?
Does this hope of which they speak
float about in the breeze
and get stuffed in pillows?
Of course it doesn’t.
What is the matter with you?
And who is this “they” anyway?
II
Hope is the thing adrift after the ship goes down,
bobbing about in the freezing water
covered in engine oil.

Hope is what shrivels
the minute any politician bangs on
about the future.

Ask the Romans.

Hope is a message in a bottle
after the cork pops out
(which it always does).

Don’t even think of reaching out.
It has no interest.

The bottle will shatter on the rocks
and cut your feet on the beach.

That’ll teach you.

Hope is a bee in your boiler suit.
It turns rational people batty.

I wouldn’t touch it with a barge pole.

And anyway, you hoped for sun
and left your umbrella on the bus.

See?

This is my response to this week’s W3 hosted by David at the Skeptics Kaddish. POW, Dennis, asked us to:-

“Write a poem that gives an abstract idea a personality, a voice, and a life of its own. Choose something you can not physically touch: Destiny, Time, Hope, Justice, Fear, Memory, Regret, Silence, Truth, or any other abstract concept that interests you.”

Perhaps a better title might be Cynicism.

And if it leaves you feeling a bit down, try this a poetic pick-me-up:

The Struggle is Not Nothing – Hope in Time of Despair

Featured images: Second version of Hope, 1886, George Frederic Watts. Tate Britain, and Past, Present, Future: Young Man Sitting under a Tree on a Rock with His Hands in Front of His Face – Johan Thomas Lundbye (Danish, Kalundborg 1818–1848 Bedsted)