On Friday I unfrocked Fourth
from its alb and tracked the comet
of stylus over glittering tar,
rapt at the tangerine flame of label.
On Saturday, in the hope
of stray muezzin on the wind
we embarked into gathering owl-light for Knebworth.
The glade of our lay-by
alchemised bombardment
into subtle thunder.
Hours, they made us wonder.
We picked the words from trees
echo-floodlit, racked the zenith
for riffing clouds, solo-constellations.
In my boy-king's box, blithe
to copyright or their trespasses
I ape-guitared.
On our way home every winding lane was a chord change.
On DVD, they blind me
in the beam of their juggernaut.
But buried in the Araby mane of night
Stevenage became Srinagar
and Hertfordshire fledged
as a sub-continent
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
Love your words.I first saw them at Leeds sometime in the very early seventies when I was at university there.Sadly, I had less time to ruminate on my way home as I lived in a hall of residence so close that I could have easily heard them from my summer evening room with the windows open.Incidentally, my friend next door was under the impression that I had been to see a folk singer called 'Ned Zeppelin'.I especially enjoyed the third from last line(there ought to be a word to linguistically precede penultimate) , having travelled all over Asia since my early retirement.I am in the midst of my belated but wondrous' gap decade'.