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BRITISH-IRISH-POETS  1998

BRITISH-IRISH-POETS 1998

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Subject:

[Douglas Clark: Re: Fred Beake's cogitations on feet]

From:

Douglas Clark <[log in to unmask]>

Reply-To:

Douglas Clark <[log in to unmask]>

Date:

Thu, 12 Mar 98 9:33:57 GMT

Content-Type:

text/plain

Parts/Attachments:

Parts/Attachments

text/plain (90 lines)

Mailbase dont like this!!!!!


----- Forwarded message # 1:

Return-Path: <[log in to unmask]>
Date:     Thu, 12 Mar 98 9:30:30 GMT
From:     Douglas Clark <[log in to unmask]>
To:       Douglas Clark <[log in to unmask]>
Subject:  Re:  Fred Beake's cogitations on feet
Address:  69 Hillcrest Drive, Bath, Somerset, BA2 1HD
Phone:    01225-427104
Email:    [log in to unmask]
Home_page:  http://www.bath.ac.uk/~exxdgdc
Message-ID:  <[log in to unmask]>

Review

Didn't see the hate before
Didn't know it was there
It's a hell of a shock to see what's writ
Was ever a soul so bare
But what's down there is but half the truth
The easier bit to rhyme
The magic that dances from silver lips
Is saved for a happier time
That purity the saving grace
Was smashed in the hammer blow
God grant it was only squashed flat
And the recovery's been slow
You can't be bad without plenty of good
Or else the mind is torn
But you seem to have played for keeps
And ripped the soul you adorn
Can't believe it's really true
That it's ugly and spiteful and trite
I always believed that underneath
The heart was warm still bright
The horrors are weighted so high in the mind
They can't be looked at straight
Verses only chew at the edge
The centre insane in state
The neurosis is known
The pattern well read
But how to be surgeon
Inside your own head
To be told you were Pound
When talking of Cecy
Was a warning that sound
Betrays fallacy
The silver tongue was my sport in the past
It took me through everything
But when can I ever risk that dance
And whisper words again
Somewhere deep is a heart I know
That promised in the sun
But the hate was so deeply set at the start
Nowhere left to run
You carry the cancer for twenty years
And try to be sweet and true
But God knows the moment you turn from heights
The filth eats right through
The only hope is to stick to the same
We really should never been born
We give you your moments of magic and mirth
And love you in spite of the scorn
Separate in ourselves
We love all the world
And hate it for what it has done
But the art that is bad
Is to break down and howl
Revenging for what was torn
The spirit of Shelley is there for us
And the fun of sleek old Cat
Thank God that Will he knew it all
What Burns instincted at
But the hate    the hate
Am I too late
Do I start where others stop
For I know that life is but ten years old
Before the trees were cut


1967

----- End of forwarded messages


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