"Immature poets imitate; mature poets steal." T S Eliot

Saturday 22 August 2009

Skin

Though I mocked the barbs
of impov'rished pride
Vain was I to suppose
that I might, readily
disdain the overtures
of my plaintive Narcissus.
I was deaf
to his imprecations
that I might not suffer
my skin - to become
thus the master of me.

Belittled in rash tedium
I sought to dredge my soul, I resolved
-provoked in haste-
to quell a pervasive ennui;
anchored in roots
of listless stagnation, indifferently conceived
in the malignant placenta
of a transient mind,
nourished well
-courtesy
of my perverse affectations.

Wednesday 19 August 2009

Parisian charades

St. Michel Blvd

inclines gently ’midst a gurgling Babel
Bateaux Mouches and quays
thronging a beleagured Seine.

you town-proud boulevard, tattooed with gum,
Marlboros; the odd
child’s shoe

uncherished now-scuffed sentinel abasing palatial façades.

Terraced boutiques ‘neath awnings sneer
at the indigent
hawking Sans-Logis.

Starched waiters bear thoughtless witness
To imperceptible disgust
dwelling in a twitching grimace
as tourists begrudge a sous ‘cross a proffered palm
- the Roma, sans-papiers and citizens
alike; equality here
mired in
a t o m i s e d iniquity.

half an hour from the Elysian fields:
a man with no arms
others with children-
beneath their furrowed brow

perhaps you’ll see your brother
catch your eye?
as I have seen
flaunted day
by day

Feuding with grass

We thought as we'd leave
the pliant grass
would remain impressed
in fidelity
our bodies traced
where we had lain

As well perhaps
for love's
tender pride
- that we did not look back.


to see the sun swiftly bid
that green phalanx-
spring to attention
with unfeeling haste
so to lure
anew, the aching whims
of anonymous lovers-who'd naively rest
cushioned
-as we were-
in verdant deceit
not fifteen minutes before.

To accuse you,
Grass
in your spite, of having spurned
my conceit
in yielding to others;
would invoke a rare sentience
peculiar to our ill-conceived feud.

and dismiss a less prosaic truth.
which lies in nature's
remorseless instinct:

that wilts
the daisychains of youth;
that rains,
heedless of your new french dress