To a LadyYour tea-sweet breath,light,in my ear,sent meall apurpleat once an older personificationof the dream whereI steppedgreen-and-rosely,necklet-light,througha past Persiangarden,and the wall of stonebreathed,stay (an older personificationof golden, tumbling littleEros) and, sedate in sandals,I could only stand,star-brushed andpapyrus-bound by thetapestry moon,(origin-lostby then,by the china-tree)in awe of thepagoda ofpoetry to come Oh, you, indeed.How was I tosleep?
Hymn to LilituMake purple the sky,Lilitu and swoop unannouncedat the point in between,at the moment, the star-tail,the frenzied impromptuof lashings ofTyrian light!Enrage the lost sky,Lilitu and ripple the trees,and then kohl-dark the moonand laugh at the buffeted sylphs;bring parched grey-blue ghostlingswho echo theCybelic night!Make free the broad sky,Lilitu and ice-cloak the windand flex kestrel talonsand let your wings bloom,harpy wings, screech-owl wingsfor your nightmarish,lyricless flight!
SollicitudoLoitering praise will come,no need for panegyrics,only leadwork-lighted love(and cliffs like onyx icebergsand long-lost bellflower rain)Wondering discontent when fine,but poetrys no clear curefor the grey wing-wounds of birds(and melancholy plays the lute,though turtle-doves sing sweeter)Mirroring torn between flight,like Dryops on seeingPans face, and narcissism(and how am I to confrontpomegranates and tears?)Castling sculpting fromcarmine Corinthiancolumns of woodland(roving memories make emeraldthose terse dormouse thoughts)Aeolizing writing from thepast to the night toshare Cyparissus fate(six more years to achieveall that Keats did)Minding very much, that Istruggle, Daphnis bird,against life, love and the letter L(but the lamia scarletted myneck, so I knew that I was real)Not quite a cypress,I cant yet cry,but I frown,throw myself downto drown in someforgotten verse,and trem
Ode to EuterpeI like seapurpled sentencesthat resoundlike lostlyres fairy-hourVirgil vigils spentcrescent-nestledamong lunarbirds and flickering foxglovethe newest shadeof midnight.I likebeing feline,sprawling,queenly,a sudden, surprisingawareness of ribs.I likeballads, oldness paintings of songs andsongs of paintings and Keats!songbirds trillingechoedGrecian urns.I likethe thrill of history,imaginings of Chloeby the pine, andsidling into lyricsof a forest year ago I likesnowswept lines becomingonenessandalone becomingtwo and, darling,shywinged I lovedawnlike you.
To ElephantMaries dreams aremine, it seems dreaming tea and swirling greenand pink of littlesailboatsLovelier than fireflies,I wont find you in dictionariesbut in pale pastel hueswell dwelland sigh a wintermoreIll curl, a cat,beside you,cream-whiskeredpoetry and there I thinkIllstay
On seeing an insect on my wallI watch your shadow flit across the ceiling you lurk among pre-Raphaelitesand the words of, well,any poem I read,and dabble in mydreams.Ive sketched a portrait of youin my mind andwhen I listen to Handel,pompous,over-ornamented,pretty,I stroll the well-wornpath before yourdouble why
?Ive already memorisedthe way yousmile.Youre heather-bell,a hundred clusteredpurple-mistedmemories,sweetest in the sun.Ill curl up with my book ofballads and Im sureIll find youthere.
New OrderAlex imitates the sun. He shines. He allows little Aten hands to burnish his curls bronze. He hops from lover to lover, friend to friend, dazzlingly gold, tossing his lions mane, cooing sunlit sweetness to Hadrian and purring poppy-red perspicacities to Erinna. It isnt that they dont love him back; he blinds them. He says, Wont you come to me? Oh, how Ill shine for you if only youll let me, but theres a certain ancient wildness in his eyes as his curls ensnare thin wrists that makes Erinna seek the door swiftly. Says Hadrian, You cannot ask for everything, Alex. Alex stuffs his hands in his pockets and makes an effort to shine. Why not? he murmurs as he spider-sidles along the busiest street in town, making sharp brown falcon-eyes look up from Greek textbooks, and soft unnoticed grey ones look up from a poet, an
The HuntI was a hound witha pheasant in itsmouth,pleased as thefirst glimmring staroer the woods,pleased as the firstnightingale,so you cooed admiration,the evening emblazonedeuphoricas I danced round yourbootsBacchically oh, the sky was the colour ofme!I splash-splashed throughmarshland andgreenery-bounded,azaleas clung to my back but clever girl! you had criedas I dropped my bold prizeat yourboots,and the mist on your glassesinformed me that you spoke thetruth.