The red-haired have the whitest skin,
Beauty of a wet climate.They should sit
Beside waterfalls,many miles from traffic
And saxon eyes,reserved for that lover
Who sits among peaks,in the disguise
Of clouds and mist,stones and rain.
Where is the blood,the beginning?
A nation's beauty,like a flame,
Lasting on charred woods,survives
In a few bodies as if true or pernicious.
They sleep out the day...
The sleep of Empire sherry and unspeakable liquors.
The washed and sober,who only want to laugh and listen.
No one wants to see them,in a grey dawn,walk down
The empty streets,an army of unkept appointments,
Broken promises,as drab as fog.
But they mean nothing,they live under the stone.
They are their own failures and our nightmares.
We have been waltzing in the foggy meadows
At the edges of cliffs,in outmoded evening dress.
Our lives are out of date,both truly obsolete.
Years ago,I dreamt I would write this poem.
I recognize the meadows,that exact view of the sea,
And the hand in my hand,familiar with rings,
The veins in the right places,a tiny flaw on the skin,
Your hand,and my hand,and your face that I cannot see.
(for P.L. and I.H.)
These days my discountends surpass
All the freedoms laws have left me with.
I live beneath a tree,I sleep on grass,
And think too much about the ways of death.
No time,no time,no meditation.
There are gradual but disastruous happenings
That prevent language.They turn me on;
They turn me off.They really make things
Like being alive difficult.It's awful.
Too much Mozart,and too much Pope.
Now we have the era of reputations.
Tennysonian or Hardyesque,
To find authentic hurt and what will move
All poets labour inward at a desk.
If they find wisdom,it's that art and love
Survive behind the times to keep us sane.
And knowing that,there's nothing to complain
Or rail about.For nothing could improve,
No matter the love you had,or what you'd risk.
Then keep us safe,so that these times will slide
Safe to survival,and find the freshened wide.
