Dictionary PoemThe noun verbs the adjectival objectadverbially,prepositioning the pronoun,having aorist participledalready.What an awful lot ofnonsense, sniffs Mr Eluard,and resumes observingthe harlequin who isreading a dictionary.The lissome young lexicographerlugubriously lucubrates,listless luna mothsloiteringabout thelungwort.Well, that was an absurdsort of sentence, thinks Sally,returning to theliliaceous border.Why bother? sneers thepessimist,and Sally isinexplicablyangered.Youd do well to be happy,she tells him.But my heart is broken.Hearts cannot remain broken forever.I disagree.But theres no use thinking that,is there? she cries. Why can you not behappy?An elephant broke my heart.She trod on it and it shatteredall glass-like.I think you are lying,and Sally folds her arms.I assure y
To A-I think you talked to me foran hour or more and it wasnice(oh, you werenice)and allegedly intelligent Iforgot all traces ofeloquence andlistened,humbly listened whileyou spoke such sensewith your dear voice Oh, subtlety what is it?What need have Ifor subtlety?Because you spoke to meso brightlythat you made me laughuntil my mouth was sore,so charmingly(and you didnt know it)that I thought Id bestwrite a poem about it so Ihave.
WhimsyCould a pen become a sword,Drawn from ink and from a hilt?Could a tiger sing a lullabyTo make hydrangeas wilt?Is Renoir-like voluptuousnessCurve-lined poetry?Is rain a mere excuse to stealA cup of moonlight tea?Are small bell-flowers musicalAs lyric gusts of wind?Why are the tree-leaves pink today?Could owls the sky exscind? Could indigo be cheerful?And could grey be seen as light?Could a witch ride on anAppaloosa on All-Hallows night?Could roses blight a darkened lane?Could briars light the way?Could augurs read the blackbirdsOr the terns above the bay?Could persimmons grow in snowdrifts?Could a book seduce a soul?Could button-eyes see clearly?Could the kestrel spare the vole?Did Celts once roam the greenwolds?Have all folktales been retold?Could a poem reveal a tortured truthOr love six decades old?Could a painter paint an eyescapeOf a long-forgotten land?Could a stag with branchèd antlersGallop oer a forest grand?Could revo
The Observer's Book of Birds1928The sky is white, Deirdre!he cries with a 3B pencilbecause it happens to benearby,And Deirdre is appalledby the grey-laced horrorsand the brazen lacuna ofblue, in which her sword hasbecome stuck.The moors are easier.There he can sitwithout listeningto the cawing rooks and thekee keeof the kestrel.He can cover his ears.He can bury his pencilsand lodge himself inthe blissful permanence of the land,and forget that he everencountered Deidres word-swordthat night at the innon the hill.He can forget that he fell in lovealtogether.Deirdre doesnt want to forget.She grasps the landas fast as she grasped his hand andthe sky and the herring gulls in the rain,and the lake-waterthat day theyswan-gazed,so long ago, inthe June of heathers.1923The swans torment himbecause they remind him of Yeats,and he becomes mutewhen his pencil isnot sharp.He kicks at the long grass by the lakeand shows Deirdre how toskip pe
To the briefly unfortunateI am lackingfingertip-touches,exquisite spider-dances,tarantellas on taffeta skin,and curve-brushingsmoothness Venus has beencruel.I need not sapphiresnor ocean-eyes,nor eyes that mirrormine merely eyes thatare an open book ofKeats.I am lackingcloseness,no one with whom to sharea butterfly-embroideredblanketor honeyed words,which butterfliesmight enjoy.I lackexhilaration entirely unnecessary to me.I needpetal-flesh,rib-tracing,mind-locked,word-littered love;elaborately simple;river-hair in which Imight drown Too much to ask
?No for day always dawnsrosy-fingered, andVenus cannot be cruelforever.
EleanorEleanor, Eleanor,Thistling through the undergrowth,Carrying off the matadorBefore hes gone to tea He gasped to see you standing there,For all the world without a care,Knew you shot Eros love-tipped arrowsBetter far than he.Eleanor, Eleanor,The chancellors an awful bore,So sail him to Capri,And teach him how to be
Hes far too shy to hold your handSo pin him down upon the sandAnd prove to him that he can smile,Then, having capered, stay a while.Eleanor, Eleanor,Pottring round the hellebore,Pluck a sprig and give it toThe princess with the pea She doesnt care for princes fair,So kiss her splendid auburn hairThen move the pea from neath her bed,And nestle next to her instead.Eleanor, Eleanor,Tossing back your unkempt locks,Zeus thinks you are something moreThan what you seem to be.Hes come to you, disguised of course,As quite a cocky dark brown horse,So ride him faster than you canUntil th
Ode to a HedgehogShe beams.And I, all of a whirlwind,am spirited away!so maddening impishnesspossesses us a simple grin from her we dance, we dance!flailing our arms aboutas though stranded at sea,screaming silence to each other,waving hands, flexing nonexistent muscles,pouting, leering,laughing loving she who makes me laugh,she whose smile has flown over an ocean(for me!)bearing its message of yesterdays love so I cannot help butgrin back.