THAT’S THE FLAWED BEAUTY OF POETRY

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THAT’S THE FLAWED BEAUTY OF POETRY

that’s the
flawed beauty of
poetry

a chipped tooth
a chipped mug

a line that
enjambs
sticking like a thorn
in your
tender foot

or end stopped line
that is only
a fraction
unexpected clsure
here
driving you hopping mad

but as you
scream

and shout
to be left
in such pain
thrown

into such doubt

think
what would
Shakeapeare do
or Homer
or Vergil

or Lennon and
McCartney

finding the words that
dwarf the gods in respect of
poetic ability

get the Muse
to let it
all hang out

WHERE THE ROAD FORKED

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WHERE THE ROAD FORKED

I came to
a fork in
the road
and stood
for a moment
remembering
my Robert Frost

but since Blake’s tiger
was hot
on
my trail

and
Lawrence’s killer snake
in my
wake

did not
wait too
long

were hot
on my trail

did not
wait
too long

such poetic
beasts

are worst of
their kind

are
pure instimcy

no time
wasted
with time
to be
philosophical

rest to
consider,
contemplate

AFTERTHOUGHT (DEFINITIVELY NOT A POEM)

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Afterthought (Definitively not a Poem)

A noir, E blanc, I rouge, U vert, O bleu: voyelles,
Je dirai quelque jour vos naissances latentes:

Tristan Tzara in a tux
floating down Rimbaud’s Seine

face-up, regaling
cultural savages on a grand piano.

Passing under bridges

of blue light

bridges of
forgetful engineering.

And then, the hoardings suddenly scream:
Nightfall! Nightfall! Man-
eater escaped from
local asylum.

This is not the road.
Vertical or horizontal, it
is neither a path nor

age-old escalator ascending
straight to Heaven.

Nothing could be less luminous though
for Tristan Tzara, now
embracing the rapids,

caught in a raw, red rush
as adulation turns a powerful rockstar deep purple
only a machine of war
can kill with
greater cacophony.

IN INESTIMABLE DELIGHT

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IN INESTIMABLE DELIGHT

I flirt with
breeze, cloud, loose
leaf

have no depth, turn
myself inside out
if I were
to see you
and as
you pass buy
you drive bees, birds, to delirium
suck all
the sweetness
from every solitary love-
struck flower

in which worst case scenrio
it is a matter of how much indifference
I can instantly cultivate
losing that
desperation to discover,
to know
whose soul it is you allow yourself to own, what
poetry writes you, who
does
the writing, who
holds possession
what creature, if any, you
are bound to
in time

beyond this moment, this day,
this hour
for the length of a life
lived in
inestimable delight.

POEM FOR SIEGFRIED SASSOON

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Poem for Siegfried Sassoon

distant thunder
the Earth crumpled
square foor by square fooi
they call it
creeping barrage

What can one say?
Who can one tell?

It is almost magical how
a single traverse, a belt of bullets
provides a disappearing act
like none other

a medal
sinking to the bottom of the Thames

as if
there is meaning left
for symbollic gesture

When this war is over
they will read the poetry,
be moved, learm
the terrible lessons

shed tears, shed tears

and then

forget.