A blackbird sings on Blue bird hill

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November brought to mind in May 
The lack of light, & that all day twilight!
How can anybody live through such visual misery?
Without declining into snake, or toad?
Even the trees have no leaves.
And the cold will rise to infect our eyes!
We are, unfortunately, not Italian, Etruscan,
Just woolly-backed mammoth barbarian sorcerers
Of a certain druidical disposition: visceral,
Bruised, damaged, rag and bone men of the heart,
Who can rise to the cloud-topping disquisitions
Of an unfettered poetry brought to the world
In strictest measure
By the boozers and the losers, by the mead imbibers,
The wine guzzlers, laudanum tipplers of Stratford atte Bowe,
And elsewhere, in these foggy isles of our own making;
For what is past is prologue to the future,
And all the realm will be full of sweet airs,
Perforated by the drift of lazy, gaudy butterflies,
Who give delight and hurt not,
As was once-upon-a-time foretold.

◄ Lost in translation

The may flower ►


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John Marks

Sat 13th May 2023 23:52

As will I Keith. And thank you so much for your continued encouragement of my work. The thin days of May pass so quickly, while the thick days of November linger so chillingly.

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keith jeffries

Sat 13th May 2023 11:30

It may be the month of May but as your poem says November is ever present, if only in our psyche. The language in all your poems is highly descriptive and in this poem it is excelled. The line which deals with wine guzzlers and laudanum tipplers takes me back to the Yates Wine Lodges? Do they still exist? I recall two; one in Blackpool and the other on the Strand in London.
Thank you for this. I shall continue to cherish the month of May.

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