Help finding a poem please about finding out that you're "average"

A friend has asked me to find a poem something on the lines of

“I thought I was good at …something? but now I find I’m average, and what does it matter anyway?”

Could it be a Roger McGough poem or one of the other Liverpudlian poets?

I tried searching on google but not much came back as she couldn’t remember the exact words.


I think I remember reading something like that but I’ve forgotten it because…well it just wasn’t that great. It wasn’t terrible, mind you, just a normal, forgettable poem. Sorry.

I’m nobody! Who are you?
Are you nobody, too?
Then there’s a pair of us - don’t tell!
They’d banish us, you know.

How dreary to be somebody!
How public like a frog
To tell your name the livelong day
To an admiring bog!

masonite’s poem is I’m nobody! by Emily Dickinson. Which is, as an aside, the only Dickinson poem I can tolerate at all. Never mind have some fondness for.

Just came in to give a cite for the poem. Can’t help you with your specific poem, Catmarie. :frowning:

You know, I hoped nobody would think I was claiming that for my own. It’s pretty well known, but of course you can’t be too careful. Thanks for clarifying, RaCha’ar, as I should have.

Oh, I didn’t mean to imply that, masonite. :eek: Just in case someone was curious about what it was and where it came from.

You didn’t imply it, I just got paranoid!

But though I have wept and fasted, wept and prayed,
Though I have seen my head [grown slightly bald] brought in upon a platter,
I am no prophet—and here’s no great matter;
I have seen the moment of my greatness flicker,
And I have seen the eternal Footman hold my coat, and snicker,
And in short, I was afraid.
. . .
No! I am not Prince Hamlet, nor was meant to be;
Am an attendant lord, one that will do
To swell a progress, start a scene or two,
Advise the prince; no doubt, an easy tool,
Deferential, glad to be of use,
Politic, cautious, and meticulous;
Full of high sentence, but a bit obtuse;
At times, indeed, almost ridiculous—
Almost, at times, the Fool.

I grow old … I grow old …
I shall wear the bottoms of my trousers rolled.

T. S. Eliot
Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock

I always thought this was about discovering that you are mediocre.

NO sorry none of those sound like they were what she wanted. It was a long shot anyway :slight_smile: Its a pity that she couldn’t be a little more specific!

thanks everyone!