You inspired Woody Allen. He hungered to cast you.
Joe Strummer snuck you into a belated protest song.
You knew everything of everyone. And you agreed
With me entirely, about the endless Greek tragedy
That the Beach Boys had become – Brian’s madness
Dennis drowning, Carl’s cancer, Mike’s takeover.
You knew the tender details
Of England’s lost heroes of song -
Sandy, Marc and Nick and co -
As perfectly as anyone. While in infinite debates
Of the merits of Dylan, Cohen, the qualities and portents
Of the Fab Three and their drummer, the most essential verses
Of the Hallelujah, you held all my attention
Without a bead of sweat. In sex you never turned
Away my offerings, nor cast disparagement upon
My need for mystic song. And thus I swore
And promised to the gods, such as they were
To you or to myself, I am not sure
To write your praises here –
From the beginning, this time forth
And forever more.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem