Henceforth, the Poet
The first poem penned by Abe Carlisle Coling.
I shall henceforth not make mincemeat of my words
Or mince them all together.
I shall prefer to speak of other things
Much finer than the weather.
I shall endeavour to produce work
Of the most quality standard
And shall prevail until toiling has ceased.
My work shall come with ease,
I am sure, after I have much
Improved in wording words at the least.
My work shall be one of the finer things in life,
Primed beyond priming,
Mimed beyond miming,
Extricated from the force of reason
To produce the finest work of insanity.
To make one laugh,
To make one cry,
To make one want to
Curl up and die.
That is the power of the poet, I see,
And when in conclusion I know,
That poet indeed must happen to be
Smart with a seed of knowledge to sow.
Yes, I very much believe it is me,
So now, henceforth, I go.
***
I am Abe Carlisle Coling, son of a disinherited English lord. And an amateur poet.
I might take the liberty of explaining to you how Albert became Abraham, and how both merged to form Abe. You see, my father, an English lord, was rather fond of the name of Albert while my American mother was rather fond of the president Lincoln and the story goes that as a compromise they first called me by both names in turn until I became so confused they settled for Abe, which my mother argued could also be short for Albert. My father did slip in an Al once in a while.
My brother's name was simpler. Great-grandfather was named Edgar, but nobody liked that name, so it was decided he would have my father's and grandfather's name, Ethan. He is my elder by four years and hates me something awful. At first I never understood why, but I now know the reason. His mother died aboard the ship to America and when father met my mother eight weeks later, Ethan was rather put out. I for one have always admired him, though. He has a knack for all those lordly qualities that I do not possess. Propriety, etiquette, mannerisms, dancing, he even plays chess like a lord. He holds himself with such a bearing that he becomes rather imposing at times. He uses that to his advantage, you can be sure.
And now I continue to matters of the present.
I have inherited a house. If it was destined to be mine from the beginning, I would have liked it to be so, but as it now stands, it was not. Rather it was a most hideous mistake from which I do not believe I will ever recover. My late uncle, Charles, the Duke of Brandhurst, entitled me to his house, Brandhurst hall and all in it, including his rather staggering collection of poems and anthologies penned by the late Lord Ethan Brandhurst, former father of said uncle. He was rather fond of poetry and took it upon himself to write some of his own. My uncle and I would pore over it together, pointing out all the flaws and laughing over the insanity of the work. The poetry itself was rather poorly written and, although I have never tried to write poetry myself before now, we enjoyed 'lording over the lord' so to speak.
That being said, I should naturally assume that the poet's gene would run in the family, for lack of any other talent, no matter how badly written those poems might be. Take, for instance, this one penned by my great grandfather, who was almost as fanatical about poetry as my grandfather, famous amongst the halls of the Brandhursts mostly because he made everyone who visited recite it so often. It was his best work.
I sit and stare at that ugly cat,
Of which my son takes possession.
He stares malignantly back at me,
All sanity out of the question.
His eyes, they bulge, His toes are awful,
They snap in and out with a bang,
But while he sits on my good hearth,
Unmoving, I'll raise my gun and shoot!
By golly he'll go out with a bang.
I understand that it lacks certain... qualities... particular to great poetry, but being a novice at his art, he had yet to learn the precise etiquette of writing. His grandson was a much better writer than he was, I assure you. My uncle wrote ten beautiful poems before he died of pneumonia last June. In his defence, it wasn't his fault his nephew persuaded him to swim in the sea for an hour. How was I to know he had never done it before and was rather sensitive to the cold?
I might add that each servant and member of staff received a copy of the compiled poems of the grandfathers, complimentary of their position and closeness to our family in serving for a minimum of five years. My grandfather had them issued as in his excitement he had had too many copies printed. Of course, he later argued, their smiles of gratitude were delayed by the subsequent absence of my father, who at the time had been on a journey to America with his wife, Caroline. She fell ill during the voyage and died two days before they set foot on American shores.
Brandhurst hall came to be left to me because of a close friendship my uncle and I shared, a love of books and other such things. Although we weren't allowed to visit grandfather, we visited uncle often and that was where our close friendship began.
Ethan, on the other hand, spent most of his time in the company of grandfather, who proudly brought him up to be 'a true Brandhurst, the first in a long time' and in doing so taught him that I was below his station, being the son of a simple American woman, although we shared the same father. Thus, we grew up somewhat separately, wishing things were different and yet not so, for life was grand in its own way.
And so, my dear reader, I come to my most sorrowful sorrow. Although my dear uncle had knowledge of my fathers trip to America and his marriage to an American, of which my grandfather disapproved and cut my father and myself out completely, he hadn't realised that grandfather thoughtfully provided a way to overrule my uncle's will in his own. Therefore I am not entitled to receive that which I should have and am sitting, as I write this, on the steps of my house which I am informed is not mine. It shall probably go to Ethan, as he was never cut out of anything, being what grandfather called a 'pureblood'. I am permitted however to take with me that collection of uninspiring, but humorous, poems.
And so I end this, my sorrowful tale of tragic woe, to begin my unfortunate start in business. I have decided to become a poet, for lack of another occupation, for I heard once from my grandfather that they live quite well and can provide for themselves quite easily. I suppose if it is in my genes, I ought to do it. Although dear knows what else I could do.
Thus, I sign off;
Abe C. Coling
YOU ARE READING
An American Poet
Historical Fiction'Time lost is never gained.' He used to recite that to me. My brother always was a weakling. He never had any backbone, and I always thought him incapable of looking after himself. I remember he would pore over grandfather's old tomes of horrible po...
