That Tennyson

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“That fucking Tennyson.”
           I caught myself muttering
as I walked along. “Yes,
that fucking Tennyson,
           he can organise a sunset
and flake gold better than I can:
and Emily Dickinson,
           with her yellow children
           at the bars of a gate
closed by her sodding dominie in grey.
And Yeats!  That fucking Yeats
wags an ageing tongue at creation
and leaves me standing -
           in the gyre of a gimbal,
           things falling apart,
as they are always bound to -
stone-cold naked, alone.”
I reminded myself, walking along,
           in the teeth of a song
           by Robartés.


◄ One of these days

Sick dog ►


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Harry O'Neill

Mon 13th Feb 2017 21:55


They`d make even an angel swear (but I liked your gentlemanly restraint when you got to Emily) ?

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