The Rider's Quest: A Reprise

A few weeks ago, I got possibly the nicest letter I've ever received. It was from a former Facebook friend. (He's only "former" because I left Facebook and X a few years ago. No, this hasn't changed my life, reduced my anxiety, or made my everyday existence deeper and more meaningful). Anyway, he told me he had been re-reading a folder of my poems he kept on his desktop (which astounded me) and hoped I hadn't given up on poetry. This delighted me beyond all measure.

I haven't actually written poetry for a bit, but I haven't given it up. Anyway, I'm going to reproduce one of my older poems now, because I found myself thinking of it today.

The poem is called The Rider's Quest. I think I wrote it about ten years ago. I wrote it quickly, and when I finished it, I thought I had written the greatest poem of all time. I've changed my mind on that score.

But I think it's OK. Yes, there's a lot of cod medievialism in it, but so what? The references to the unicorn might seem a bit twee, but at the time I was playing with the mock-serious idea of a "unicorn school" of poetry. (I'm like the child who has to invent imaginary playmates.) I've only realized just now that "unicorn" is a near-anagram of unironic.

The stanza that came to mind was this one. The titular rider has been warned by the host of the inn where he stops that he risks missing all the music of life in his frantic quest. He responds thus:

"Dear host, the things you say are true;
The world is broad, the world is wide,
And full of wonders, old and new.
And yet-- it pales unless I ride.
The merry festivals I see
Seem merrier, the more I speed--
And the untasted revelry,
While still I ride, is sweet indeed."

This is my own experience. I actually "smell the roses" best when I'm not even thinking about the roses-- when I'm thinking about something else. Life seems most full of incidental pleasures when I'm absorbed in some consuming activity. Food tastes better, jokes are funnier, I'm more receptive to the atmosphere around me than when I'm just woolgathering.

Conversely, when I'm consciously trying to "enter into the atmosphere" and do nothing else-- like when I'm in a park on a sunny day, and everybody around me is having fun-- it's usually a complete wash-out.

This is why I like little moments in movies such as this one in The American President, when two of the staffers are having a political discussion during a Christmas party:

ROBIN: Fellas, we haven't slept in three years. Can't we forget work for one night and take this moment to enjoy each other as friends? It's Christmas.

LEWIS (pause): It's Christmas?

KODAK: Yeah, you didn't get the memo?

(Actually, I've always found that Christmas-- and every other holiday and tradition-- is at its best when it's a background, an atmosphere. Which is not to say that it should only be a background. Personally I've always preferred the run-up to Christmas to Christmas itself, which is inevitably an anti-climax. Unless we take "Christmas" to mean the season.)

I'd be interested to know whether other people share this disposition, which seems to be the opposite of everything we're told. I might even call it anti-mindfulness.

Given everything I've written above, it's a fair bet that I'm a highly goal-oriented, purposeful, intentional, determined kind of fellow brimming over with work ethic, right? Ha, ha! Not a bit of it! I wish I was, though.

Since I'm praising my own poetry, I'm also quite proud of these lines:

"Rider, your words are strange, but fair.
The hall seems brighter while you stay.
You seem to carry some quaint air
From long ago, or far away."

That's good, isnt it? Isn't it? I think so.

Anyway, here's the rest:

The Rider's Quest: A Unicorn Poem

"Oh rider tell me why you ride
So endlessly, so urgently?
They ask throughout the countryside
Or if you hunt, or if you flee.
Now linger here a little while
And whisper it into my ear
The thing that drives you many a mile--
Or is it far, or is it near?"




"My gentle host, I cannot say--
I have not seen it with my eyes
Or by the common light of day
Or under any earthly guise.
I seek it, yet it seeks me too.
I seek it, yet I somehow flee.
Good host, I cannot give to you
The answer to this mystery."

"Poor rider, linger yet a while;
And warm yourself beside the fire.
We cannot live without a smile,
Enraptured by some one desire.
You miss the music of the day
You miss the poetry of night.
You must not yearn your life away--
Poor rider, what a sorry sight!"

"Dear host, the things you say are true;
The world is broad, the world is wide,
And full of wonders, old and new.
And yet-- it pales unless I ride.
The merry festivals I see
Seem merrier, the more I speed--
And the untasted revelry,
While still I ride, is sweet indeed."




"Rider, your words are strange, but fair.
The hall seems brighter while you stay.
You seem to carry some quaint air
From long ago, or far away.
Stay yet a while. And tell me true--
Is your lone quest to silence sworn?
I think I know what you pursue--
I think you chase the unicorn."

"The unicorn? Perhaps I do.
I cannot say, my gentle host.
Sometimes I fear, to tell you true,
I chase the phantom of a ghost.
I am not sworn to silence stern,
Nor do I riddle you for sport.
The thing for which I hunt and yearn
Is something of the strangest sort."

"Still stranger than the unicorn?
Oh rider, do you mock at me?
Is this a costume to be worn,
An outward show of mystery?
Perhaps you merely seek a name?
And yet-- I cannot think it so.
Oh pardon me!-- I see with shame
Your heart is purer than the snow."



"Good host, my pardon will I grant
Most readily. Your words are fair.
But mockery and teasing chant
Follow behind me everywhere.
"The man is mad", the children sing,
"He plays some trick", their mothers say.
I hardly hear their chattering.
I smile on them and go my way."

"Good rider, tell me why you stare
So keenly at that candle's flame?
I've marked you often looking there--
All candle-light is much the same.
A candle is a common thing,
A thing unnoticed by the world.
What magic has its flickering
For one on such a mission hurled?"

"Of all the things the world contains
This flame is closest to my prize.
This flicker that the world disdains
Is a kind beacon to my eyes.
Of every worldly thing the most
Unworldly is its gentle gleam.
Here is my secret, worthy host:
I seek the light seen in a dream."

If you've made it to the end of the poem, here's one of my favourite quotations, and one that fits with the theme of the poem. It's from Patrick Pearse, one of the leaders of the 1916 Rising: "Two things have constantly pulled at cross-purposes in me: one, a deep homing instinct, a desire beyond words to be at home always, with the same beloved faces, the same familiar shapes and sounds about me; the other, an impulse to seek hard things to do, to go on far quests and fight for lost causes."