Mark Heathcote (22/03/66 / Manchester)
A love slave's shanty to a goddess...
I'd like to look for—the spry-blossom, called Phoebe
There is nought as virtuous, or saintly, as the white gypsy...
I'd like to find me—that last green forget-me-not
What matter the cost, if I don't hit the jackpot...
I'd like to look for—the pale goddess of the moon;
She unto me should be a sun, and I her Neptune!
If she would but, peel me in her "bergamot-palm
...Sister of Apollo". I'd shyly-sing my last, psalm...
Lie with me; with the trident in Poseidon, crowned:
Enter within me, all thy eternity newly bound...
Love, let no mountain-shade you're innate-fancy
Earthquake: Wild horses, shall not tether my fiancée.
Like the smoking-waves upon the sirens-shore
I'll descend to meet her when, the rocks of thunder-roar.
When the foam of perfection is my narcissi
Reflection-transformed; answer then why we're so tawdry.
Answer me why? Like the sea, forever u-turned:
These lover's hearts like flowers be spurned..?
Comments about this poem (A love slave's shanty to a goddess... by Mark Heathcote )
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