Its my birthday today.
I shall walk in the wood
And maybe see
A nymph.
But, if so,
I shall be good!
I shall go to the pub
Tonight
And delight
In the company of companions dear,
As we sit near
To the open fire.
I am 51.
Over half a century has passed.
Tonight I shall raise a glass
And wonder where the time
Has gone,
And be glad
That I have
Friends, and rhyme.
I
Would rather die
In this darkening park,
While
Evening birds sing,
Than in some sterile
Hospital wing,
Where drugs oblivion bring,
And no birds sing.
—
Having written the last line, I am reminded that I owe a huge debt to John Keats, “La Belle Dame sans Merci”, https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poems/44475/la-belle-dame-sans-merci-a-ballad).
The last 2 lines of the first stanza of Keat’s poem read:
“The sedge has withered from the lake,
And no birds sing”.
While the last stanza of the poem runs thus:
“And this is why I sojourn here,
Alone and palely loitering,
Though the sedge is withered from the lake,
And no birds sing”.
You may see
Beauty in poetry,
And smile
While
The thing being described,
Is otherwise …
“He liked to rhyme
And was fond
Of women
And wine,
And sinning.
Now he has gone beyond
Women,
And wine,
And sinning.
And he is out of time
For rhyme”.
I have sat round the open pub fire
And discussed the rights and wrongs of empire,
And the ends
Of men
With friends.
But when
I walk through fallen leaves,
The ends
Of men
I truly perceive.
Thinking of a girl he’s never met,
And perhaps he,
Will never see.
Memories of heels and skirts.
And flirts
(Who where not).
Momentary joy, close followed by regret
And pain,
Maybe he
Will do it all again.
But, If so, for what?
A brief hot
Rush,
A flush
Of pleasure.
Recollections of girl’s scent,
Then repent
At leisure.
I love
The dark heart
Of the wood.
But the black
Has been cut back
Allowing me
To see
Where the mystery
Should be.
Yet the dark
And the light
Fight
Within me,
Still, and will
Do so
Until I go
Into the night,
And become forever part
Of the dark,
And the light.
I met a young lady named Ling
Who said, “you poets are all left-wing!”.
I said, “between you and I,
Eliot was a Conservative kind of guy,
Whilst Philip Larkin was really right-wing!”.
Lonely at night?
You can delight
In the company
Of beautiful me!
There are no strings to tie.
You to me.
I
Can be
Whatever you wish me to be,
And I’ve uniforms galore
(and more),
so come visit me!
Or, if you prefer
My friend Claire
Can make it 3.
She has long blonde hair,
While I’m a brunette.
Please, come and see me,
And don’t forget,
The little matter of the fee …
There is something about the song
Of birds, on a cold, January day,
That makes me wish to stay,
Out in this wood,
Where
The air
Is good.
There song
Is long
As joy, or grief.
Although, we know
That joy is, too often brief.
The smile
Oft flits across the face, then is gone
While
Grief
Lives on
In the hearts of men
Who, when
They hear the birds
Pour out words,
To our feathered friends,
Who comprehend
Not our ends).
My dog revels in the sscents of grass,
Whilst I
Look up to the sky
And think “all this will pass”,
(A thought that he can not grasp).
Yet he, and the birds that fly,
Are happier than I.
K Morris - Poet 