While waiting for the Sunday papers to be delivered I might as well post a
poem from ten years ago...
Famous
It would've been nice to have been famous
Selling ten thousand books in a day,
Profiled in the Sunday papers
Reading at the Voice Box.
Instead I write my poems
Publish my own little books,
Which might as well be buried with me
For all the immortality they confer.
Yet I, alone, can summons the horsemen
Shake your little world like Yggdrasil's oak,
Can name the names and drink the potions
To weave the landscape in rainbow's tears.
With my little black cat, my house and my car
I stride a giant's foot over the Earth,
Last of the true believers I favour fortune
As my Ludovic tipples cream onto his snout.
Lord of the backwaters, lover of words, magician
I drag a century howling into its rebirth,
I ask the questions and leave poetry to others
My Darwinian brain making the connections.
The dark time of year goes, the crocuses are out
A brilliant February sun lights the afternoon,
Tonight I will sit beneath the crescent moon
And count the days of my poems in ecstasy.
Douglas Clark, Bath, Somerset, England ....
http://www.dgdclynx.plus.com
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