Can the poet avoid the Sword of Damocles
Suspended above his head
By the thinnest thread?
His pleas
To those who he has offended
That he is merely speaking the truth
Will not prevent
The descent
Of sword from roof.
The poet’s curse
Is to write verse
That will
Sometimes chill
His readers to the heart.
They will traduce
Him for his art,
But the sword of truth
He must brandish high
Else he will die
On the cabinet, next to my bed, is a talking alarm clock with a big yellow button which, when pressed announces the time.
We walk the cliff path of Brexit
And pass
A mock-up of the empire
And Oxford’s dreaming spire.
The exit
Is down or up?
There was a young lady named Ling
With whom I had a fling.
I swear its true
That I love you.
But love is such a temporary thing …
The churchyard is shrouded in snow.
Trees stand stark against the white.
I know
The delight
Of snow
There was a young lady named Sally
Who lived in a narrow old alley.
When the moon shone bright
She would dance by it’s light
And sing of her childhood valley
Let us purchase a balloon
To visit our mistress the moon.
In attaining our goal
We are, for a moment whole.
But tis over soon
For we are but lust
And whirling dust
When age hath made me what I am not now,
And every wrinkle tells me where the plow
Of time hath furrowed; when an ice shall flow
Through every vein, and all my head wear snow;
When death displays his coldness in my cheek,
And I myself in my own picture seek,
Not finding what I am, but what I was,
In doubt which to believe, this, or my glass:
Yet though I alter, this remains the same
As it was drawn, retains the primitive frame
And first complexion; here will still be seen
Blood on the cheek and down upon the chin;
Here the smooth brow will stay, the lively eye,
The ruddy lip, and hair of youthful dye.
Behold what frailty we in man may see,
Whose shadow is less given to change than he.
There was a young lady named Joan
Who deprived a dog of his bone.
The poor dog gave a howl
Then, with a growl
He devoured that young lady Joan!
(“Hard Times” by Charles Dickens, https://www.gutenberg.org/files/786/786-h/786-h.htm).
