With maturity comes freedom?
Rubbish.
With an absence of choice
Have I ceased to be a man?
Reading Antony Burgess on morality
In the New Yorker,
I wrestled with predestination -
Nowt so queer as a clockwork orange.
As far as I could tell, things you think are OK -
Action makes it predestined.
I squeezed a glance at the twenty-or-so blonde
Bending over a second-hand book,
Wellington all the way - black and grey -
But great legs, dark tights.
Pity the haunches are hidden under a shift.
And then back to Burgess -
Maybe skins are choice -
It's just peeling that's wrong.
A very late middle-aged man having a coffee
Looking hopefully conspicuous -
Fruit for thought.
The girl barista is also personable,
As well as making a great trim flat white.
‘Girl, I'm goin to make you sweat', the song has it.
Not in my case, I don't have options -
They are just lookers.
Time was when the blush would bloom above the breasts
And heads would roll back -
Now sin is passing me by.
Good has been imposed upon me.
I never had to contend with mind control -
All the girls knew what I was thinking -
Some tossed their curls, some bit lips - some smiled.
Most just practiced being admired - and were dismissive.
But in the round
Sad-to-say, I have lost free will -
Now destined to an absence of choice
By unreciprocated zest.
An orange that just ticks.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
A master piece. I am adding you as one of my favorite poets.