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33 Lines For Ginsberg
Beatiest of beats let me address you
as you America. Let me bless you
charleychaplin poet that you are
like Ferlinghetti spreadeagled in air
Ringo's Song [beatles]
I am not the great John, bold and zany,
many-talented, a fun man, brainy,
brought up in Liverpool, shot in New York
before he had properly finished his work.
Frost locks the landscape under sun,
silvers the gold of autumn,
deepens hollows in the fields,
sharpens shadows on the mountainsides,
Whitby Jet
Black stone soft to carve
beads, ornament, brooches.
Stone, fine and intricate,
to wear, to revel in,
Gently The Woodsorrel And The Dove
Gently the woodsorrel and the dove
evoked wide glades of memory
to share my quest across the sea,
a world-floor I could float above,
Frank Graham's North Country
He knew the North Country
before it was knowable,
when roads hid their objects
in height, water, wood.
Season Of Mists
I thank you for your view of a view of autumn, Keats
who never saw your own autumn with its actual pitfalls.
Yours was the autumn of childhood, of hope, or romance, of belief,
my mother's autumn though not that of her hardworking family,
Anne Bronte
The southern moors
slope down to Scarborough.
She watches Eastern seas.
She's heard of Whitby Abbey, north
Mirror (Flanders Moss, Near Stirling)
I hear the water swishing down,
this equilibrium of rain.

I think of waterfalls and trees
At The Antonine Wall
It scars the dullest part of Scotland,
obliterated under warehouses,
short term railways, housing schemes,
the outskirts of uncertain villages.

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6/16/2021 8:39:55 AM #