Doubt sets in. A novel in verse?
The Golden Gate
A week ago, when I had finished
Writing the chapter you've just read
And with avidity undiminished
Was charting out the course ahead,
An editor - at a plush party(well-wined, -provisioned, speechy, hearty)
Hosted by (long live!) Thomas Cook
Where my Tibetan travel book
Was honoured - seized my arm: "Dear fellow,
What's your next work?" "A novel ..." "Great!
We hope that you, dear Mr Seth -"
"... In verse," I added. He turned yellow.
"How marvellously quaint," he said,
And subsequently cut me dead.
Professor, publisher, and critic
Each voiced his doubts. I felt misplaced.
A writer is mere arthritic
Among these muscular Gods of Taste.
As for that sad blancmange, a poet-
The world is hard; he ought to know it.
Driveling in rhyme's all very well;
The question is, does spittle sell?
Since staggering home in deep depression,
My will's grown weak. My heart is sore.
My lyre is dumb. I have therefore
Convoked a morale-boosting session
With a few kind if doubtful friends
Who've asked me to explain my ends.