Ragnarok - Poem by Kenneth Allott
Our Trojan world is polarised to mourn;
To dream and find a black spot on the sun,
And wake to love and find our lover gone.
The destination of any weapon is grief.
In homesteads now where joy must seem naive
Under a splitting sky our women conceive.
The towns of houses, massed security
Out-generalled by a later century,
Are hearse-plumes on an old economy.
The ache of crushed walls when the raid is over.
This is a house, we said, we have built forever:
A two-backed fool, thinking of one day's weather.
Only one monster has to love his error.
Only his wrangling heart cannot recover,
But glories in illusion when half cadaver;
Or likes being ill, or nurses grievances,
Or calls a mountain or a forest 'his',
Or quarrels in five hundred languages.
And man, erect, unvenerable,
A bloodshot eye so simply vulnerable
That half his history is marginal,
Incises stone in the Bastille of hate:
'Give us this day before it is too late
Something to love indeed, enough to eat.'
Comments about Ragnarok by Kenneth Allott
Read this poem in other languages
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.