de la Mare, did not care
and Cummings could not come
Auden sent his deep regrets
as did Betjeman.
Housman was a bit put out
by Yeats as absentee
who was with Thomas down the pub
drunk with Bukowski
so of my little soirée
is much best left unsaid
it serves me right I’m sad to say
for inviting just the dead.
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
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.
this silken flute plays
upon her lips enchanted
magical love songs
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 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
he read dead men’s words
and from their mortality
they spoke of life’s truth
The world needs far more Wilfreds
Rudyards and Edwins too
there’s too many people called Toby
and not enough named Basil or Hugh.
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
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
