I thought I would experiment with Outlook Express, which I am very new to, and prepare a post in advance. A poem sequence from 30 years ago jumped into my mind half-an-hour ago and seeing Randolph was asking me to submit a poem I thought I would submit it. What I dont know is whether all the newlines on the poems will be lost and I should wrap HTML around them, so this is in the nature of an experiment. The reason for the posting was that young girl's face I saw on Robert Adams' Pulteney Bridge in Bath yesterday afternoon. Now for the experiment. (And there is a touch of Catullus in some of the wordplay). It's no good! I have to use HTML to get my linebreaks. Sorry for those who cant handle it.
Fresca a'Maying
girl of the winter table,
so impatient to commence the feast;
can you tell me where the bones are
that wrappt a cover round my chest?
silver cutlery, white cloth;
your empty glass filling with wine
as admirers watch the bubble grow
of a quick tongue's genteel rapine.
coffee sippt, a long liqueur;
now you listen at intellects
who but for their brains but for their balls
would suffice your evening's sex.
girl of the winter table,
with me you are silent deaf and warm;
in my dreams you bring that body
wearing love's poison beneath charm...
she has come for my heart;
to remove it.
salve of all the talents,
I kiss your smooth forehead;
the lilies of the valley bless you.
my scarlet rose she stole for her cheek:
my purple blood she drew for her cloak:
my white heat she fanned as her cover:
desolate the breeze grips the moor.
tombs.
there are no tombs where our dead rest.
blow ashes in the wind;
without a heart I will haunt the moon:
never again will be that soft evening,
when sang the lay bareheaded in the ruined choir.
There was once a rumour that roses die;
many believed and sought to hack at stems.
They were wrong: life carries its own roots.
She is so secret that one can but whisper...
I raised her to the stirrup with her proud smile;
laughing she careless split my hot cheek.
They are right: those who choose Achilles.
She is so secret that her bed is unknown...
To redeem my heart I pledged my soul;
the price was asked and the broker paid.
They are safe: those who will outlive me.
She is so secret that no man may own her...
I have no secrets: my dead eyes are insane.
She is so secret I choose love as her name...
the chisel was of marble ---
for the soft warm face shines
with the clarity of the ancients ---
her sculpted bones shape my heart.
to stroke her amber felt
would be a snatch at Aphrodite's robe ---
high heads and white pillows
are rightly our select.
more to your tongue than talking --- girl,
let my fingers warm your spine.
it will be evening soon
and we'll play at sparrows on the marshes.
nested,
her warm body is lying in sleep's grip.
relaxation tinges her delicate smile.
her thighs shift as dream places her cheek
silently on a lover's chest.
she twists in old fashioned ways:
casting out a hand; opening her legs.
then she rolls back into a wound ball
wrappt with all the tensions of yesterday.
and the moonlight watches
as a tear breaks the beauty of her smile.
one damp tear strays to the outside
from her world.
all who love her watch and treasure.
she can give so little.
but so much.
Douglas Clark, Bath, Somerset, England ....
Lynx: Poetry from Bath ......
... http://www.dgdclynx.plus.com/lynx.html
|