two poems, plus one by luc
Dorothy Ducksworth
…Nor will the thought forget,
after wandering many years
nor absence hold its breath,
these sharp words on lofty ears,
Yet this green pastoral heath’ t’were to me
a baby’s breath, and I could start afresh
ne’er worrying about death!
Clowns
On longer shallows,
fall dim shadows,
Bathes the scene
in light serene.
A thrush swallows,
a wolf howls
in linden green, in linden green…
A sharp shriek, the voice peals
fresh peeled voices, thresh!
It will be soon,
It will be soon -
It is coming…
in a forgotten place
It is forgotten lore,
like a child bored
Who happens upon
clowns fucking!
And understands nothing
But the unusual laughter,
enjoys the rapture
And starts to feign.
The King is Inn
For God’s sake let us sit upon the ground
And tell sad stories of dead kings:
How some have been deposed, some disposed of,
some slain by war, the haunted ghosts they have oppressed,
Some poisoning their wives, some poisoned by their lives,
All murdered in their sleep — for posterity
’round mortal coil and suffering
Death suffers his crown, Scoffing his state,
and planning his estate with pomp,
Allowing him a gown of gentle breezes
To monarchize the kingdom, in which he reigned
Confusing him with self, with loyal subjects
As if this flesh that walls about our life
Were one great beast; and, humours us,
Comes home at the last, and, with a little grin
Bores through your castle wall — you fucking clown!
luigi
rote by me