songs of bold heroes
may sing to me,
though ring to me
of mendacity
whereas in his pure
and lilting lines
those simple rhymes
lie honesty
poets
LINES WRITTEN AT THE FLORENTINE GRAVE OF A LESSER KNOWN ENGLISH POET
one ripened pomegranate
feeds your sleep,
the lady reaps the harvest
of tears that pilgrims
bring to weep
to quench their souls regardless
of which words
keep comfort warm
or cold in bitter days
but still your stone
now weathered worn
remarks your company.
Note : behind the shining white marble monument to Elizabeth Barrett Browning at the Cimitero Inglese in Florence is a small stone informing visitors to the lady’s tomb that just a little way away is the shaded and almost forgotten resting place of fellow 19th century poet William Savage Landor.
Flute
this silken flute plays
upon her lips enchanted
magical love songs
Shame All Of The Poets
shame all of the poets
for their art dares to condemn
that which we are sold as truth
by more moral men
imprison verse contentious
that move against the creed
deny their revolution
and the questions that they breed
censor and damn the artists
who try to realise
the beauty that is hidden
from more blinded eyes
sacrifice the poets
on the altars of your lies
but beware, in doing so
their words you’ll sanctify.
Real Poets
real poets dress in ruffled shirts
with frock coats velvet long
I write in my pyjamas
which seems a little wrong.
real poets they have tragedy
which marks their every thought
I think I’m quite a happy chap
with nae a darkened thought.
real poets all have fancy names
to hang their words upon
or multiple initials
whilst I have just the one.
real poets puff on opium
to let their minds fly free
or seek fairies in the absinthe
I like a cup of tea.
real poets suffer greatly
and have consumption too
always with death around them,
hmm, I did just have the flu.
real poets finish poems
unless they die before
my words tend to fizzle out
when I haven’t any more
Truth
he read dead men’s words
and from their mortality
they spoke of life’s truth
What’s In A Name? (With apologies to anyone named Toby)
The world needs far more Wilfreds
Rudyards and Edwins too
there’s too many people called Toby
and not enough named Basil or Hugh.
Incunabulum
you purport the truth
though your very creation
was but a mirror image
of that the hands had wrought
right to left
with the weight of the world
from plate to page
to give life to your thoughts
The Damned Poet
and so it was in Langland’s time
the punishment should fit the rhyme
though not so harsh for meters fail
or all poets would beyond the Pale
be forced to woe eternally
bound to lines in purgatory
Emancipazione
photocopied verse
love and loss
pasted on walls
guerilla poems
published, bound
in terracotta
for audiences
of indifferent
passers by
though not my tongue
I stop
and try
I owe them
as a travelling
fellow traveller.
