I’ve got a poem
on my brain
but nothing
with which
to write
it with
as I pass Tottenham Hotspur’s
football ground.
A police horse
polices the pavement
all straw & shit
strange in this suburban
setting.
It’s hooves clattering
sounding exactly like
two coconut
shells clapped together
to suggest THE LONE RANGER
on some old 50’s/60’s radio show.
The horse snorts:
“Hey...poet...over here! ”
“Yeah...whatsamatter
ya never saw a talking horse before? ”
“Of course...of course...and you
call yourself a poet? ”
“Couldn’t you just make me up
for your poetic purposes? ”
“Alright...alright...I’m here now anyway
so go on with your poem! ”
“I’ll remember it
for you! ”
“Now how
does the first line
(come on... come on...do I have to read your mind!)
...go again? ”
“Something something or other
about her beauty
that hot summer night
as the front clasp
of her
intricately laced bra
is released
& the beauty
of her breasts
rest on your open palms
like the gift they are
revealed
to all the world
sunlight & leaves
playing about her nipples
Her laughter
a flock of birds
written across the loveliness
of this eternal evening
etc., etc., etc.
and so on and so on
and so forth and
so forth.”
The horse falters
shies away at the suggestiveness
of the coming
Verse
but the lines are taken up
by the crowd
(excited now)
“Who are ya...who are ya! ”
surging forward
& taking up the chant:
“Sunlight & leaves
play about her nipples”
“Her nipples! ”
“Her... nipples! ”
I escape around the corner
catch a bus going the wrong way
try to gather
my scattered thoughts
as first
the bus driver
and then all the passengers
on both the lower
and upper decks
take up
the sunlight & leaves
concept
& discuss whether
it is fitting or not
& does credit
to your beauty
as I get off
at the next stop
and walk home
trying to keep
my thoughts
to
my
self.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
I read below People who read Donall Dempsey...and think to myself... are lucky people...