Still on my egotrip I have spent ten minutes editing out three mediocre
love poems and an unpublished Bath poem to post. I am listening to
Radio 3 on Illyria and have spent the day wandering in and out of the
Trowbridge pub, my nearest. I have also been reading Stephen Barber's
book on Antonin Artaud but so far all that Artaud has done of merit
is to act as Marat in Abel Gance's Napoleon. I will finish the book
before Alan Keith's Hundred Best Tunes on the radio at 9 o'clock.
I have never been as mad as Artaud but I know all about it. Medication
has improved so much since his day although I am on the previous generation
of drugs according to my Sunday paper.
This poem was a very early one written in 1967. It is in my 1985 book
'Troubador'.
Morning
You in the dim morning light
Laughing and staring
Your hair fluffed and shoulders bare
As you listened in the morning
To a mind racing its patterns
With no understanding
Appeasing its gods
Mouthing its prayers
And you listened in the morning
As the cool hard floor
Touched at tense fingers
Beckoning in the dawn
And you spoke of a someone
Who perhaps loved a someone
But you were so young in the morning
Who taught you this game?
But was love in the morning
As talked of another
And the eyes told of wonder
And tongues trapped together
As we prayed to our own gods
To tell them we were there
And you in the morning
As it went away
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