Buoy the population of the soul
Toward their destination before they drown
~ Robert Pinsky
May 2021
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This work is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution- NonCommercial-NoDerivs 2.5 License.
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made with antville
helma object publisher

In Paris with You - James Fenton

Don't talk to me of love. I've had an earful
And I get tearful when I've downed a drink or two.
I am one of your talking wounded.
I am a hostage. I am maroonded.
But I am in Paris with you.

Yes, I am angry at the way I've been bamboozled
And resentful at the mess that I've been through.
I admit I am on the rebound
And I don't care where are we bound.
I am in Paris with you.

Do you mind if we do not go to the Louvre,
If we say sod off to sodding Notre Dame
If we skip the champs Elysees
And remain here in this sleazy
Old hotel room
Doing this or that
To what and whom
Learning who you are,
Learning what I am.

Don't talk to me of love. Let's talk of Paris,
The little bit of Paris in our view.
There's that crack across the ceiling
And the hotel walls are peeling
And I am in Paris with you.

Don't talk to me of love. Let's talk of Paris.
I am in Paris with the slightest thing you do.
I am in Paris with your eyes, your mouth,
I am in Paris with all points south.
Am I embarrassing you?

I am in Paris with you.

Came on the Poetry List. Good poem.

Big Book Of Poetry

... link

I So Liked Spring - Charlotte Mew

I so liked Spring last year
Because you were here; --
The thrushes too --
Because it was these you so liked to hear --
I so liked you.

This year's a different thing, --
I'll not think of you.
But I'll like Spring because it is simply Spring

 As the thrushes do.  

Came on the Minstrels list.

Big Book Of Poetry

... link

Codicil - Derek Walcott

Schizophrenic, wrenched by two styles,
one a hack's hired prose, I earn
my exile. I trudge this sickle, moonlit beach for miles,

tan, burn
to slough off
this live of ocean that's self-love.

To change your language you must change your life.

I cannot right old wrongs.
Waves tire of horizon and return.
Gulls screech with rusty tongues

Above the beached, rotting pirogues,
they were a venomous beaked cloud at Charlotteville.

Once I thought love of country was enough,
now, even if I chose, there is no room at the trough.

I watch the best minds rot like dogs
for scraps of flavour.
I am nearing middle
age, burnt skin
peels from my hand like paper, onion-thin,
like Peer Gynt's riddle.

At heart there is nothing, not the dread
of death. I know too many dead.
They're all familiar, all in character,

even how they died. On fire,
the flesh no longer fears that furnace mouth
of earth,

that kiln or ashpit of the sun,
nor this clouding, unclouding sickle moon
withering this beach again like a blank page.

All its indifference is a different rage.

Big Book Of Poetry

... link

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