Melancholy’s lack of zest
written all over his palimpsest:
to die at twenty-five to some
will hardly seem to have been alive,
but for Johnny Keats and the footloose Cavaliers
poetry, music, art, tears were eternal.
They eschewed self-pity, untold fears.
They tried their best to stay alive
In a world…
It's hard to live without you, brother.
Between the worlds of death and life
this fool hangs around.
Misunderstanding is in my soul
smouldering, a fire with damp leaves.
My heart's fierce wounds
given balm even cured
by the knowing of you.
Banished to this
foreign land, you are -
wandering through death.
Those rich metaphors drawn from the sky and sea
Rich funereal language, baptism, burial and birth,
Blossom and harvest, the wise ones, Witan’s children.
The lips of children sing
That this life is not enough.
Smoke over Mosul. Mosul’s churches where once
The Jacobite heart of Christian belief was celebrated
I am paralysed, silent, stuck
in a shadow behind this mountain
I scurry into a winter-valley:
Dried up, shrivelled, weather-beaten:
Rock- hidden fossils, time set in stone.
Evolutions of Medusa’d scare the shit out of me
Even if I wasn’t afflicted by a peculiar petrified decay. …