INFAMOUS POET

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1. Dance Me To The End Of Love Dance me to your beauty with a burning violin Dance me through the panic ’til I’m gathered safely in Lift me like an olive branch and be my homeward dove Dance me to the end of love Dance me to the end of love Oh let me see your beauty when the witnesses are gone […]...
2. CONSTRUCTIONS/RECONSTRUCTIONS I Living in a land Where only the dying correspond I am borne on the wings of love II I cannot join in a poem The interstices of clouds I watched a lapwing Hover in the air Glide in an arc Veer from the sheer cliff III Who shall I meet On this journey to […]...
3. POET-IN-RESIDENCE You are my dream Of the East You are my life In the West Fused in one You begin my day And end each day With a silent smile When I die I will Have only my love To leave you. You said I had written No poems for you And you had written Only […]...
4. HYMN How I love the working-class girls of Leeds, Their mile-wide smiles, eyes bright as beads, Their young breasts bobbing as they run, Hands quick as darting fish, lithe legs Bare as they scramble over the Hollows With brown-soled feet and dimpled bums Half-covered with knickers, and short frocks Full of flowers and their delicate ears, […]...
5. A Game of Fives Five little girls, of Five, Four, Three, Two, One: Rolling on the hearthrug, full of tricks and fun. Five rosy girls, in years from Ten to Six: Sitting down to lessons – no more time for tricks. Five growing girls, from Fifteen to Eleven: Music, Drawing, Languages, and food enough for seven! Five winsome girls, […]...
6. A Poet's Death is His Life IV The dark wings of night enfolded the city upon which Nature had spread a pure white garment of snow; and men deserted the streets for their houses in search of warmth, while the north wind probed in contemplation of laying waste the gardens. There in the suburb stood an old hut heavily laden with snow […]...
7. TO BRENDA WILLIAMS ON HER FIFTIETH BIRTHDAY The years become you as Oxford becomes you, As you became Oxford through the protest years; From Magdalen’s grey gargoyles to its bridge in May, From the cement buttresses of Wellington Square To Balliol, Balliol in the rain. The years become you as the Abbey Road becomes you, As you became that road through silent […]...
8. The Years To-night I close my eyes and see A strange procession passing me The years before I saw your face Go by me with a wistful grace; They pass, the sensitive, shy years, As one who strives to dance, half blind with tears. The years went by and never knew That each one brought me nearer […]...
9. The Morning Half-Life Blues Girls buck the wind in the grooves toward work In fuzzy coats promised to be warm as fur. The shop windows snicker Flashing them hurrying over dresses they cannot afford: You are not pretty enough, not pretty enough. Blown with yesterday’s papers through the boiled coffee morning We dream of the stop on the subway […]...
10. Sonnet VII: Sweet Poet of the Woods Sweet poet of the woods – a long adieu! Farewel, soft minstrel of the early year! Ah! ’twill be long ere thou shalt sing anew, And pour thy music on the ‘night’s dull ear,’ Whether on spring thy wandering flights await, Or whether silent in our groves ye dwell, The pensive muse shall own thee […]...
11. AUBADE Dawn’s my Mr Right, already Cocks have crowed, birds flown from nests, The neon lights of Leeds last night still Sovereign in my sights, limousines and Pink baloons, tee shirts with green stencilled Dates of wedding days to come, the worn dance floor, Jingling arcades where chrome fendered fruit machines Rest on plush carpets like […]...
12. The Poet And His Book Down, you mongrel, Death! Back into your kennel! I have stolen breath In a stalk of fennel! You shall scratch and you shall whine Many a night, and you shall worry Many a bone, before you bury One sweet bone of mine! When shall I be dead? When my flesh is withered, And above my […]...
13. I AM NOT A NATIVE OF THIS PLACE I am not a native of this palce.(Yosimasu G.) Nor yet a stranger. With the rst of you I hunt for shade My boots half off To let the air through. My head is on my shoulders & is real. I plant cucumbers Twice a year & count the bounty. Often I read The papers […]...
14. The Poet Pleads With The Elemental Powers The Powers whose name and shape no living creature knows Have pulled the Immortal Rose; And though the Seven Lights bowed in their dance and wept, The Polar Dragon slept, His heavy rings uncoiled from glimmering deep to deep: When will he wake from sleep? Great Powers of falling wave and wind and windy fire, […]...
15. To a Poet There is a lovely noise about your name, Above the shoutings of the city clear, More than a moment’s merriment, whose claim Will greater grow with every mellowed year. The people will not bear you down the street, Dancing to the strong rhythm of your words, The modern kings will throttle you to greet The […]...
16. The Beautiful Xi Shi Since beauty is honoured all over the Empire, How could Xi Shi remain humbly at home? Washing clothes at dawn by a southern lake And that evening a great lady in a palace of the north: Lowly one day, no different from the others, The next day exalted, everyone praising her. No more would her […]...
17. Silence When I was cub reporter I Would interview the Great, And sometimes they would make reply, And sometimes hesitate; But often they would sharply say, With bushy eyebrows bent: “Young man, your answer for to-day Is – No Comment.” Nigh sixty years have called the tune, And silver is my pate; No longer do I […]...
18. A Poet's Wooing I woo’d a woman once, But she was sharper than an eastern wind. Tennyson “What may I do to make you glad, To make you glad and free, Till your light smiles glance And your bright eyes dance Like sunbeams on the sea? Read some rhyme that is blithe and gay Of a bright May […]...
19. The Poet Words flow onto paper like rain, forming giant rivers Of unseen lands. The very force guides us along a journey That holds of great adventure. We are the explorers of the literary world. We must find the courage to write what Others are unable to, with the greatest Of passion. A poet dreams. and then […]...
20. Since Nine O'Clock Half past twelve. Time has gone by quickly Since nine o’clock when I lit the lamp And sat down here. I’ve been sitting without reading, Without speaking. Completely alone in the house, Whom could I talk to? Since nine o’clock when I lit the lamp The shade of my young body Has come to haunt […]...
21. OUR SON Quarter to three: I wake again at the hour of his birth Thirty years ago and now he paces corridors of dark In nightmares of self-condemnation where random thoughts Besiege his fevered imagination – England’s Imminent destruction, his own, the world’s… Sixty to eighty cigarettes a day, unavailing depot injections, Failed abscondings, failed everything: Eton […]...
22. The Poet VIII He is a link between this and the coming world. He is A pure spring from which all thirsty souls may drink. He is a tree watered by the River of Beauty, bearing Fruit which the hungry heart craves; He is a nightingale, soothing the depressed Spirit with his beautiful melodies; He is a white […]...
23. THE BAD SEASON MAKES THE POET SAD Dull to myself, and almost dead to these, My many fresh and fragrant mistresses; Lost to all music now, since every thing Puts on the semblance here of sorrowing. Sick is the land to th’ heart; and doth endure More dangerous faintings by her desperate cure. But if that golden age would come again, And […]...
24. Sex With A Famous Poet I had sex with a famous poet last night And when I rolled over and found myself beside him I shuddered Because I was married to someone else, Because I wasn’t supposed to have been drinking, Because I was in fancy hotel room I didn’t recognize. I would have told you Right off this was […]...
25. Stella's Birthday March 13, 1719 Stella this day is thirty-four, (We shan’t dispute a year or more:) However, Stella, be not troubled, Although thy size and years are doubled, Since first I saw thee at sixteen, The brightest virgin on the green; So little is thy form declin’d; Made up so largely in thy mind. Oh, would it please the […]...
26. A Poet at Twenty Images leap with him from branch to branch. His eyes Brighten, his head cocks, he pauses under a green bough, Alert. And when I see him I want to hide him somewhere. The other wood is past the hill. But he will enter it, and find the particular maple. He will walk through the door […]...
27. On Stella's Birth-Day 1719 Stella this Day is thirty four, (We shan’t dispute a Year or more) However Stella, be not troubled, Although thy Size and Years are doubled, Since first I saw Thee at Sixteen The brightest Virgin on the Green, So little is thy Form declin’d Made up so largely in thy Mind. Oh, woud it please […]...
28. To A Poet That Died Young Minstrel, what have you to do With this man that, after you, Sharing not your happy fate, Sat as England’s Laureate? Vainly, in these iron days, Strives the poet in your praise, Minstrel, by whose singing side Beauty walked, until you died. Still, though none should hark again, Drones the blue-fly in the pane, Thickly […]...
29. Sonnet 17: Who will believe my verse in time to come Who will believe my verse in time to come If it were filled with your most high deserts? Though yet heaven knows it is but as a tomb Which hides your life, and shows not half your parts: If I could write the beauty of your eyes, And in fresh numbers number all your graces, […]...
30. Sonnet XVII Who will believe my verse in time to come, If it were fill’d with your most high deserts? Though yet, heaven knows, it is but as a tomb Which hides your life and shows not half your parts. If I could write the beauty of your eyes And in fresh numbers number all your graces, […]...
31. The Sunset Years of Samuel Shy Master I may be, But not of my fate. Now come the kisses, too many too late. Tell me, O Parcae, For fain would I know, Where were these kisses three decades ago? Girls there were plenty, Mint julep girls, beer girls, Gay younger married and headstrong career girls, The girls of my friends And […]...
32. Her sweet Weight on my Heart a Night Her sweet Weight on my Heart a Night Had scarcely deigned to lie When, stirring, for Belief’s delight, My Bride had slipped away If ’twas a Dream made solid just The Heaven to confirm Or if Myself were dreamed of Her The power to presume With Him remain who unto Me Gave even as to […]...
33. Janus IMAGE of beauty, when I gaze on thee, Trembling I waken to a mystery, How through one door we go to life or death By spirit kindled or the sensual breath. Image of beauty, when my way I go; No single joy or sorrow do I know: Elate for freedom leaps the starry power, The […]...
34. Poet As Fisherman I fish for words To say what I fish for, Half-catch sometimes. I have caught little pan fish flashing sunlight (yellow perch, crappies, blue-gills), Lighthearted reeled them in, Filed them on stringers on the shore. A nice mess, we called them, And ate with our fingers, laughing. Once, dreaming of fish in far-off waters, I […]...
35. I Went I did not restrain myself. I let go entirely and went. To the pleasures that were half real And half wheeling in my brain, I went into the lit night. And I drank of potent wines, such as The valiant of voluptuousness drink....
36. A FINE MADNESS Any poets about or bored muses fancying a day out? Rainy, windy, cold Leeds City Station Half-way through its slow chaotic transformation Contractors’ morning break, overalls, hard hats and harness Flood McDonalds where I sip my tea and try to translate Valйry. London has everything except my bardic inspiration I’ve only to step off the […]...
37. DEATH OF A POET for Wendy Oliver, who knew him I am the sick animal you dream you are caring for In the long avenues of night I cannot find a name For the sickness except the despair of a poet sensing his veins Silt up like the delta of a neglected river with none of the solace Sidney […]...
38. The Poet in the Nursery The youngest poet down the shelves was fumbling In a dim library, just behind the chair From which the ancient poet was mum-mumbling A song about some Lovers at a Fair, Pulling his long white beard and gently grumbling That rhymes were beastly things and never there. And as I groped, the whole time I […]...
39. Crabapple Blossoms SOMEBODY’S little girl-how easy to make a sob story over who she was once and who she is now. Somebody’s little girl-she played once under a crab-apple tree in June and the blossoms fell on the dark hair. It was somewhere on the Erie line and the town was Salamanca or Painted Post or Horse’s […]...
40. The Poet's Calendar January Janus am I; oldest of potentates; Forward I look, and backward, and below I count, as god of avenues and gates, The years that through my portals come and go. I block the roads, and drift the fields with snow; I chase the wild-fowl from the frozen fen; My frosts congeal the rivers in […]...