An apology

Hearing a friend reading a poem of his the other called Pylons, I was reminded of a poem by Stephen Spender that I read over ten years ago. I smirked to myself. The Pylons, I remembered vividly, was one of the worst poems I'd ever read. It included some ridiculous image about the pylons being like naked girls, which even as a teenager I realised they obviously weren't. In one swoop I decided that Stephen Spender was not worth reading - fortunate, really, since I had no inclination to, anyhow.

Rereading it the other day, I feel a small apology is in order. It does have its moments of silliness, but all in all, it's not such a bad poem. Judge for yourself:

The Pylons

The secret of these hills was stone, and cottages
Of that stone made;
And crumbling roads
That turned on sudden hidden villages.

Now over these small hills, they have built the concrete
That trails black wire;
Pylons, those pillars
Bare like nude, giant girls that have no secret.

The valley with its gilt and evening look
And the green chestnut
Of customary root,
Are mocked dry like the parched bed of a brook.

But far above and far as sight endures
Like whips of anger
With lightening's danger
There runs the quick perspective of the future.

This dwarfs our emerald country by its trek
So tall with prophecy:
Dreaming of cities
Where often clouds shall lean their swan-white neck.