Eamer o’ Keefe with your tinge of brogue
And Irish warmth, Daisy and Debjani
With your karma and cool verse, I salute you.
( III )
“Ecoutez la voix du vent” – listen to the wind’s voice
As Milosz commands “All your griefs,
My sad ones, are in vain” but offering
In recompense soaring sonatas which remain unread
Untranslated, relegated to the reserve stock
Of the Institut Franзais, along with Fargue,
Jacob and Larbaud while all those Bloodaxe deadheads
Blossom and bloom round poetry’s tomb
Where still there’s room for Ursula’s
Queen’s Medal for Poetry, lacklustre poetaster
From Harry Chamber’s Press at Peterloo –
That Augean stable has too much shit
For even me to clear with my scabrous wit.
I burn to turn myself into the translator of French poetry
For our time and not to waste what little life I’ve left
Attacking Survivors ‘Coming Through’ –
A second-hand title for a third rate book
Of botched and blotched attempts at verse and worse.
Down with O’Brien and Forbes, those two of our time
Who above all others vie for the crown of infamy and slime.
Underground poets of Albion unite
Its time to clear the literary world of shite.