Tennyson
by Michael Doyle

It had seemed a sturdy step to take,
And as suddenly, it became my mistake.
Lying in this emergency room hospital bed,
Time was given to think on things Tennyson said.

I found myself n the boundless deep,
Setting there the emergency room's keep,
And wondering about the roots of poetry again.
I settled in to study the word doodles of Tennyson,

It strikes me as odd that he's become less known,
At least, as the interests of the elite have shown.
For me, he's someone with whom I'd conspire - 
Who better than the Poet Laureate of the British Empire?

His twelve narrative poems have always felt vital,
And it doesn't get any better for a recital -
Whether it be splendid moments of knightly gallantry,
Or Tennyson's visionary idylls turned into poetry.

Words rightly strung together have their own melody,
Pronounced as they are with sincerest empathy.
Tennyson's articulate despair beneath an abysmal sea,
These are the things Victorians found as fantasy.

Tales told were at once filled with the ancient,
And brought forward by the echoes from the patient.
Songs that were suddenly a kind of modern magic,
Only a few of these hinted at being tragic.

Whispered terrors filled Tennyson's cosmology,
At times, this ran deeper than ancient geology.
New love, new legends, worldly science, and skepticism,
All these joined to form his pessimism.

Tennyson's soul was a turmoil of polite revolution,
Stirred as it was by loss of God, extinction, and evolution.
Each impacted his intelligence and deep-set emotion.
The problems of destiny and identity led him to devotion.

(c)April 30, 2026   Michael Doyle
All Rights Reserved