POETS ON THIS PAGE:
WENDELL BERRY * W. D. SNODGRASS * LOUISE GLUCK * JAMES REISS * THOM GUNN * DOUGLAS DUNN * EDWARD HIRSCH * CHARLES CAUSLEY * B. H. FAIRCHILD * WOLE SOYINKA
Hunting them, a man must sweat, bear the whine of a mosquito in his ear, grow thirsty, tired, despair perhaps of ever finding them, walk a long way. He must give himself over to chance, for they live beyond prediction. He must give himself over to patience, for they live beyond will. He must be led along the hill as by a prayer. If he finds them anywhere, he will find a few, paired on their stalks, at ease in the air as souls in bliss. I found them here at first without hunting, by grace, as all beauties are first found. I have hunted and not found them here. Found, unfound, they breathe their light into the mind, year after year.
by Wendell Berry, 1934-
THE PEACE OF WILD THINGS
When despair for the world grows in me and I wake in the night at the least sound in fear of what my life and my children's lives may be, I go and lie down where the wood drake rests in his beauty on the water, and the great heron feeds. I come into the peace of wild things who do not tax their lives with forethought of grief. I come into the presence of still water. And I feel above me the day-blind stars waiting with their light. For a time I rest in the grace of the world, and am free.
by Wendell Berry, 1934-
The Blue Robe
How joyful to be together, alone as when we first were joined in our little house by the river long ago, except that now we know each other, as we did not then; and now instead of two stories fumbling to meet, we belong to one story that the two, joining, made. And now we touch each other with the tenderness of mortals, who know themselves: how joyful to feel the heart quake at the sight of a grandmother, old friend in the morning light, beautiful in her blue robe!
by Wendell Berry, 1934-
from New Collected Poems. © Counterpoint Press, 2012
A series of poems:
TO SEE–AND HEAR–MICHAEL MOERMAN INTERPRET THE WENDELL BERRY POEM “Come Forth” [CLICK HERE]
A LOCKED HOUSE
As we drove back, crossing the hill, The house still Hidden in the trees, I always thought— A fool’s fear—that it might have caught Fire, someone could have broken in. As if things must have been Too good here. Still, we always found It locked tight, safe and sound. I mentioned that, once, as a joke; No doubt we spoke Of the absurdity To fear some dour god’s jealousy Of our good fortune. From the farm Next door, our neighbors saw no harm Came to the things we cared for here. What did we have to fear? Maybe I should have thought: all Such things rot, fall— Barns, houses, furniture. We two are stronger than we were Apart; we’ve grown Together. Everything we own Can burn; we know what counts—some such Idea. We said as much. We’d watched friends driven to betray; Felt that love drained away Some self they need. We’d said love, like a growth, can feed On hate we turn in and disguise; We warned ourselves. That you might despise Me—hate all we both loved best— None of us ever guessed. The house still stands, locked, as it stood Untouched a good Two years after you went. Some things passed in the settlement; Some things slipped away. Enough’s left That I come back sometimes. The theft And vandalism were our own. Maybe we should have known.
by W. D. Snodgrass, 1926–2009
From Selected Poems, 1957-1987 (New York: Soho Press, 1987). Copyright © 1987 by W.D. Snodgrass.
LEAVING THE MOTEL
Outside, the last kids holler Near the pool: they'll stay the night. Pick up the towels; fold your collar Out of sight. Check: is the second bed Unrumpled, as agreed? Landlords have to think ahead In case of need, Too. Keep things straight: don't take The matches, the wrong keyrings-- We've nowhere we could keep a keepsake-- Ashtrays, combs, things That sooner or later others Would accidentally find. Check: take nothing of one another's And leave behind Your license number only, Which they won't care to trace; We've paid. Still, should such things get lonely, Leave in their vase An aspirin to preserve Our lilacs, the wayside flowers We've gathered and must leave to serve A few more hours; That's all. We can't tell when We'll come back, can't press claims, We would no doubt have other rooms then, Or other names.
by W. D. Snodgrass, 1926–2009
It is not the moon, I tell you. It is these flowers lighting the yard. I hate them. I hate them as I hate sex, the man’s mouth sealing my mouth, the man’s paralyzing body— and the cry that always escapes, the low, humiliating premise of union— In my mind tonight I hear the question and pursuing answer fused in one sound that mounts and mounts and then is split into the old selves, the tired antagonisms. Do you see? We were made fools of. And the scent of mock orange drifts through the window. How can I rest? How can I be content when there is still that odor in the world?
by Louise Glück
From The First Four Books of Poems by Louise Gluck. Copyright © 1968, 1971, 1972, 1973, 1974, 1975, 1976, 1977, 1978, 1979, 1980, 1985, 1995 by Louise Glück. Reprinted by permission of HarperCollins Publishers.
THE DROWNED CHILDREN
You see, they have no judgment. So it is natural that they should drown, first the ice taking them in and then, all winter, their wool scarves floating behind them as they sink until at last they are quiet. And the pond lifts them in its manifold dark arms. But death must come to them differently, so close to the beginning. As though they had always been blind and weightless. Therefore the rest is dreamed, the lamp, the good white cloth that covered the table, their bodies. And yet they hear the names they used like lures slipping over the pond: What are you waiting for come home, come home, lost in the waters, blue and permanent.
by Louise Glück
GRETEL IN DARKNESS
This is the world we wanted. All who would have seen us dead are dead. I hear the witch's cry break in the moonlight through a sheet of sugar: God rewards. Her tongue shrivels into gas . . . Now, far from women's arms and memory of women, in our father's hut we sleep, are never hungry. Why do I not forget? My father bars the door, bars harm from this house, and it is years. No one remembers. Even you, my brother, summer afternoons you look at me as though you meant to leave, as though it never happened. But I killed for you. I see armed firs, the spires of that gleaming kiln-- Nights I turn to you to hold me but you are not there. Am I alone? Spies hiss in the stillness, Hansel, we are there still and it is real, real, that black forest and the fire in earnest.
by Louise Glück
From The First Four Books of Poems by Louise Gluck. Copyright © 1968, 1971, 1972, 1973, 1974, 1975, 1976, 1977, 1978, 1979, 1980, 1985, 1995 by Louise Glück. Reprinted with the permission of HarperCollins Publishers.
A man wets his forefinger with his tongue and holds up a perfect water glass, empty and glistening. He is sitting at a table in a large hall with other men in identical blue blazers with eagle medallions over their breast pockets. Now the first man fingers the glass rim, tentatively, as if it were jagged-edged. And now he strokes it clockwise, slowly, stopping to wet his finger again and again, like an old man paging through a book—until the glass comes to life with a thin, high whine like nothing he has ever heard, and the others look up in amazement, catching on, holding up their glasses, too, wetting and stroking them clockwise like ice skaters in unison. All the glasses are coming to life now; their throats are slowly catching fire, glistening with a thinner, higher whine than any bird. It is like a pitch pipe with wings. It is something like the music each man heard when he stepped outside at night for the first time alone as a boy. Then there was nothing in the sky but stars and music. And the sky was like glass.
by James Reiss
PEOPLE IN SUNLIGHT
A man and a woman are sitting on an overstuffed sofa in a room overflowing with sunlight, she in a black bikini, he in a soldier's uniform. He takes off his cap and says her husband was a good soldier. She crosses her legs and says that may be true as the sky is blue. He unpins a miniature flag from his sleeve and presents her with it. Sunlight catches the stripes, tossing them all over the rug like spilled coffee. Sunlight catches the coffee table off-guard, tossing it back in their faces. She touches her lips to the flag and says she's hungry. He fiddles with his buttons and says nothing. She unbuttons her bikini and stands in a block of sunlight, grinning. He grins, too; it is a beautiful day, the War is almost over.
by James Reiss
¿HABLA USED ESPAN~OL?
The Spanish expression Cuando yo era muchacho may be translated: when I was a boy, as, for example, 'When I was a boy I wanted to be a train driver, ' or 'When I was a boy I was completely unaware of the flimsy orchid of life.' It is the kind of expression found in textbooks of the blue breeze and is more useful than expressions like 'Please put the bananas on the table, Maria, ' or 'Take it easy is the motto of the happy-go-lucky Mexican.' When I was a boy the sun was a horse. When I was a boy I sang 'Rum and Coca-Cola.' When I was a boy my father told me the mountains were the earth's sombreros.
by James Reiss
IN THE PARK
My mother says the summer I was two I used to swing for hours in the park. She says I would run to her shouting “Wing! Wing!” every morning till she could bear it no longer. She says no stroller could hold me; as we reached the park I would tear loose from her grip and race for the swings with a shriek that startled grown-ups and made children cry. “Wing!” I would shriek till she plunked me down, lowered the bar, and set me free with a shove. Then—and here her voice rises—she says I would sit for hours pumping furiously, my mouth at last jammed shut, my huge eyes blank and glassy, as if an idiot of motion bounced me on his toenail high over the park, higher and higher.
by James Reiss
An account of his mother’s suicide when he was in his teens, written in the third person:
Forty-eight years ago— Can it be forty-eight Since then?—they forced the door Which she had barricaded With a full bureau’s weight Lest anyone find, as they did, What she had blocked it for. She had blocked the doorway so, To keep the children out. In her red dressing-gown She wrote notes, all night busy Pushing the things about, Thinking till she was dizzy, Before she had lain down. The children went to and fro On the harsh winter lawn Repeating their lament, A burden, to each other In the December dawn, Elder and younger brother, Till they knew what it meant. Knew all there was to know. Coming back off the grass To the room of her release, They who had been her treasures Knew to turn off the gas, Take the appropriate measures, Telephone the police. One image from the flow Sticks in the stubborn mind: A sort of backwards flute. The poker that she held up Breathed from the holes aligned Into her mouth till, filled up By its music, she was mute.
by Thom Gunn
I shall not soon forget The greyish-yellow skin To which the face had set: Lids tights: nothing of his, No tremor from within, Played on the surfaces. He still found breath, and yet It was an obscure knack. I shall not soon forget The angle of his head, Arrested and reared back On the crisp field of bed, Back from what he could neither Accept, as one opposed, Nor, as a life-long breather, Consentingly let go, The tube his mouth enclosed In an astonished O.
by Thom Gunn
TO HEAR THOM GUNN READ HIS POEMS “JAMESIAN” AND “THE HOME” [CLICK HERE]
This poem enters a dog’s thoughts, capturing the boredom, expectation, unease, and curiosity that dogs no doubt feel while locked in and restricted to a domestic life:
All today I lie in the bottom of the wardrobe feeling low but sometimes getting up to moodily lumber across rooms and lap from the toilet bowl, it is so sultry and then I hear the noise of firecrackers again all New York is jaggedy with firecrackers today and I go back to the wardrobe gloomy trying to void my mind of them. I am confused, I feel loose and unfitted. At last deep in the stairwell I hear a tread, it is him, my leader, my love. I run to the door and listen to his approach. Now I can smell him, what a good man he is, I love it when he has the sweat of work on him, as he enters I yodel with happiness, I throw my body up against his, I try to lick his lips, I care about him more than anything. After we eat we go for a walk to the piers. I leap into the standing warmth, I plunge into the combination of old and new smells. Here on a garbage can at the bottom, so interesting, what sister or brother I wonder left this message I sniff. I too piss there, and go on. Here a hydrant there a pole here's a smell I left yesterday, well that's disappointing but I piss there anyway, and go on. I investigate so much that in the end it is for form's sake only, only a drop comes out. I investigate tar and rotten sandwiches, everything, and go on. And here a dried old turd, so interesting so old, so dry, yet so subtle and mellow. I can place it finely, I really appreciate it, a gold distant smell like packed autumn leaves in winter reminding me how what is rich and fierce when excreted becomes weathered and mild but always interesting and reminding me of what I have to do. My leader looks on and expresses his approval. I sniff it well and later I sniff the air well a wind is meeting us after the close July day rain is getting near too but first the wind. Joy, joy, being outside with you, active, investigating it all, with bowels emptied, feeling your approval and then running on, the big fleet Yoko, my body in its excellent black coat never lets me down, returning to you (as I always will, you know that) and now filling myself out with myself, no longer confused, my panting pushing apart my black lips, but unmoving, I stand with you braced against the wind.
by Thom Gunn
Thirteen Steps and the Thirteenth of March
She sat up on her pillows, receiving guests. I brought them tea or sherry like a butler, Up and down the thirteen steps from my pantry. I was running out of vases. More than one visitor came down, and said, 'Her room's so cheerful. She isn’t afraid.' Even the cyclamen and lilies were listening, Their trusty tributes holding off the real. Doorbells, shopping, laundry, post and callers, And twenty-six steps up the stairs From door to bed, two times thirteen's Unlucky numeral in my high house. And visitors, three, four, five times a day; My wept exhaustions over plates and cups Drained my self-pity in these days of grief Before the grief. Flowers, and no vases left. Tea, sherry, biscuits, cake and whisky for the weak... She fought death with an understated mischief -- 'I suppose I’ll have to make an effort' -- Turning down the painkillers for lucidity. Some sat downstairs with a hankie Nursing a little cry before going up to her. They came back with their fears of dying amended. ‘Her room's so cheerful. She isn't afraid.' Each day was duty round the clock. Our kissing conversations kept me going, Those times together with the phone switched off, Remembering our lives by candlelight. John and Stuart brought their pictures round, A travelling exhibition. Dying, She thumbed down some, nodded at others, An artist and curator to the last, Honesty at all costs. She drew up lists, Bequests, gave things away. It tore my heart out. Her friends assisted at this tidying In a conspiracy of women. At night, I lay beside her in the unique hours. There were no mysteries in candle-shadows, Birds, aeroplanes, the rabbits of our fingers, The lovely, erotic flame of the candlelight. Sad? Yes. But it was beautiful also. There was a stillness in the world. Time was out Walking his dog by the low walls and privet. There was anonymity in words and music. She wanted me to wear her wedding ring. It wouldn’t fit even my little finger. It jammed on the knuckle. I knew why. Her fingers dwindled and her rings slipped off. After the funeral, I had them to tea and sherry At the Newland Park. They said it was thoughtful. I thought it was ironic -- one last time -- A mad reprisal for their loyalty.
by Douglas Dunn, Elegies
To climb these stairs again, bearing a tray, Might be to find you pillowed with your books, Your inventories listing gowns and frocks As if preparing for a holiday. Or, turning from the landing, I might find My presence watched through your kaleidoscope, A symmetry of husbands, each redesigned In lovely forms of foresight, prayer and hope. I climb these stairs a dozen times a day And, by the open door, wait, looking in At where you died. My hands become a tray Offering me, my flesh, my soul, my skin. Grief wrongs us so. I stand, and wait, and cry For the absurd forgiveness, not knowing why.
by Douglas Dunn, Elegies
Tonight when I knelt down next to our cat, Zooey, And put my fingers into her clean cat's mouth, And rubbed her swollen belly that will never know kittens, And watched her wriggle onto her side, pawing the air, And listened to her solemn little squeals of delight, I was thinking about the poet, Christopher Smart, Who wanted to kneel down and pray without ceasing In everyone of the splintered London streets, And was locked away in the madhouse at St. Luke's With his sad religious mania, and his wild gratitude, And his grave prayers for the other lunatics, And his great love for his speckled cat, Jeoffry. All day today—August 13, 1983—I remembered how Christopher Smart blessed this same day in August, 1759, For its calm bravery and ordinary good conscience. This was the day that he blessed the Postmaster General 'And all conveyancers of letters' for their warm humanity, And the gardeners for their private benevolence And intricate knowledge of the language of flowers, And the milkmen for their universal human kindness. This morning I understood that he loved to hear— As I have heard—the soft clink of milk bottles On the rickety stairs in the early morning, And how terrible it must have seemed When even this small pleasure was denied him. But it wasn't until tonight when I knelt down And slipped my hand into Zooey's waggling mouth That I remembered how he'd called Jeoffry 'the servant Of the Living God duly and daily serving Him,' And for the first time understood what it meant. Because it wasn't until I saw my own cat Whine and roll over on her fluffy back That I realized how gratefully he had watched Jeoffry fetch and carry his wooden cork Across the grass in the wet garden, patiently Jumping over a high stick, calmly sharpening His claws on the woodpile, rubbing his nose Against the nose of another cat, stretching, or Slowly stalking his traditional enemy, the mouse, A rodent, 'a creature of great personal valour,' And then dallying so much that his enemy escaped. And only then did I understand It is Jeoffry—and every creature like him— Who can teach us how to praise—purring In their own language, Wreathing themselves in the living fire.
by Edward Hirsch
TO SEE THE CHRISTOPHER SMART POEMS ON WHICH HIRSCH’S “Wild Gratitude” IS BASED [CLICK HERE & SCROLL TO BOTTOM OF PAGE]
MAN ON A FIRE ESCAPE
He couldn’t remember what propelled him out of the bedroom window onto the fire escape of his fifth-floor walkup on the river, so that he could see, as if for the first time, sunset settling down on the dazed cityscape and tugboats pulling barges up the river. There were barred windows glaring at him from the other side of the street while the sun deepened into a smoky flare that scalded the clouds gold-vermilion. It was just an ordinary autumn twilight— the kind he had witnessed often before— but then the day brightened almost unnaturally into a rusting, burnished, purplish red haze and everything burst into flame: the factories pouring smoke into the sky, the trees and shrubs, the shadows of pedestrians singed and rushing home … There were storefronts going blind and cars burning on the parkway and steel girders collapsing into the polluted waves. Even the latticed fretwork of stairs where he was standing, even the first stars climbing out of their sunlit graves were branded and lifted up, consumed by fire. It was like watching the start of Armageddon, like seeing his mother dipped in flame … And then he closed his eyes and it was over. Just like that. When he opened them again the world had reassembled beyond harm. So where had he crossed to? Nowhere. And what had he seen? Nothing. No foghorns called out to each other, as if in a dream, and no moon rose over the dark river like a warning—icy, long-forgotten— while he turned back to an empty room.
by Edward Hirsch
Edward Hopper And The House By The Railroad (1925)
Out here in the exact middle of the day, This strange, gawky house has the expression Of someone being stared at, someone holding His breath underwater, hushed and expectant; This house is ashamed of itself, ashamed Of its fantastic mansard rooftop And its pseudo-Gothic porch, ashamed of its shoulders and large, awkward hands. But the man behind the easel is relentless. He is as brutal as sunlight, and believes The house must have done something horrible To the people who once lived here Because now it is so desperately empty, It must have done something to the sky Because the sky, too, is utterly vacant And devoid of meaning. There are no Trees or shrubs anywhere--the house Must have done something against the earth. All that is present is a single pair of tracks Straightening into the distance. No trains pass. Now the stranger returns to this place daily Until the house begins to suspect That the man, too, is desolate, desolate And even ashamed. Soon the house starts To stare frankly at the man. And somehow The empty white canvas slowly takes on The expression of someone who is unnerved, Someone holding his breath underwater. And then one day the man simply disappears. He is a last afternoon shadow moving Across the tracks, making its way Through the vast, darkening fields. This man will paint other abandoned mansions, And faded cafeteria windows, and poorly lettered Storefronts on the edges of small towns. Always they will have this same expression, The utterly naked look of someone Being stared at, someone American and gawky. Someone who is about to be left alone Again, and can no longer stand it.
by Edward Hirsch
WHAT HAS HAPPENED TO LULU?
What has happened to Lulu, mother? What has happened to Lu? There's nothing in her bed but an old rag-doll And by its side a shoe. Why is her window wide, mother, The curtain flapping free, And only a circle on the dusty shelf Where her money-box used to be? Why do you turn your head, mother, And why do tear drops fall? And why do you crumple that note on the fire And say it is nothing at all? I woke to voices late last night, I heard an engine roar. Why do you tell me the things I heard Were a dream and nothing more? I heard somebody cry, mother, In anger or in pain, But now I ask you why, mother, You say it was a gust of rain. Why do you wander about as though You don't know what to do? What has happened to Lulu, mother? What has happened to Lu?
by Charles Causley, 1917-2003
I am the Great Sun
From a Normandy crucifix of 1632 I am the great sun, but you do not see me, I am your husband, but you turn away. I am the captive, but you do not free me, I am the captain but you will not obey. I am the truth, but you will not believe me, I am the city where you will not stay. I am your wife, your child, but you will leave me, I am that God to whom you will not pray. I am your counsel, but you will not hear me, I am your lover whom you will betray. I am the victor, but you do not cheer me, I am the holy dove whom you will slay. I am your life, but if you will not name me, Seal up your soul with tears, and never blame me.
found & edited by Charles Causley, 1917-2003
A STARLIT NIGHT
All over America at this hour men are standing by an open closet door, slacks slung over one arm, staring at wire hangers, thinking of taxes or a broken faucet or their first sex: the smell of back-seat Naugahyde, the hush of a maize field like breathing, the stars rushing, rushing away. And a woman lies in an unmade bed watching the man she has known twenty-one, no, could it be? twenty-two years, and she is listening to the polonaise climbing up through radio static from the kitchen where dishes are piled and the linoleum floor is a great, gray sea. It's the A-flat polonaise she practiced endlessly, never quite getting it right, though her father, calling from the darkened TV room, always said, "Beautiful, kiddo!" and the moon would slide across the lacquered piano top as if it were something that lived underwater, something from far below. They both came from houses with photographs, the smell of camphor in closets, board games with missing pieces, sunburst clocks in the kitchen that made them, each morning, a little sad. They didn't know what they wanted, every night, every starlit night of their lives, and now they have it.
by B. H. Fairchild
Mohammed Ali At The Ring-side, 1985-
The arena is darkened. A feast of blood Will follow duly; the spotlights have been borrowed For a while. These ringside prances Merely serve to whet the appetite. Gladiators, Clad tonight in formal mufti, customized, Milk recognition, savour the night-off, Show off Rites. Ill fitted in this voyeur company The desperate arm wrap of the tiring heart Gives place to social hugs, the slow count One to ten to a snappy “Give me five!” Toothpaste grins replace the death-mask Rubber gumshield grimaces. Promiscuous Peck–a-cheek supplants the maestro’s peek-a-boo. The roped arena waits; an umpire tests the floor, Tests the whiplash boundaries of the rope. The gallants’ exhibition rounds possess These foreplay rounds. Gloves in silk-white sheen Rout lint and leather. Paco Rabanne rules the air. A tight-arsed soubriette checks her placard smile To sign the rounds for blood and gore. Eased from the navel of Bitch-Mother Fame A microphone, neck-ruffed silver filigree – as one Who would usurp the victor’s garland -- stabs the air For instant prophesies. In cosy insulation, bathed In tele-glow, distant homes have built Their own vicarious rings – the forecast claimed Four million viewers on the cable deal alone; Much "bread” was loaded on the scales At weighing hour – till scores are settled. One Will leave the fickle womb tonight Smeared in combat fluids, a broken foetus. The other, toned in fire, a dogged phoenix Oblivious of the slow countdown of inner hurts Will thrust his leaden fists in air Night prince of the world of dreams. One sits still. His silence is a dying count. At last the lens acknowledges the tested Hulk that dominates, even in repose, The giddy rounds of furs and diamond pins. A brief salute – the camera is kind - Discreetly pans, and masks the doubletalk Of medicine men – “Has the syndrome But not the consequence.” Promoters, handlers It’s time to throw in the towel – Parkinson’s Polysyllables have failed to tease a rhyme From the once nimble Louisville Lips. The camera flees, distressed. But not before The fire of battle flashes in those eyes Rekindled by the moment’s urge to centre stage. He rules the night space even now, bestrides The treacherous domain with thighs of bronze, A dancing mural of delights. Oh Ali! Ale-e-e... What music hurts the massive head tonight, Ali! The drums, the tin cans, the guitars and mbira of Zaire? Aa-lee! Aa-lee Bomaye! The Rumble in the Jungle? Beauty and the Beast? Roll call of Bum-a-Month. The rope-a-dope? The Thrilla in Manilla? – Ah-lee! Ah-lee! “The closest thing to death”, you said. Was that The greatest, saddest prophecy of all? Oh, Ali! Black tarantula whose antics hypnotize the foe! Butterfly side slipping death from rocket probes. Bee whose sting, unsheathed, picks the teeth Of the raging hippopotamus, then fans The jaws’ convergence with its flighty wings. Needle that threads the snapping fangs Of crocodiles, knots the tusks of elephants On rampage. Cricket that claps and chirrups Round the flailing horn of the rhinoceros, Then shuffles, does a bugaloo, tap-dances on its tip. Space that yields, then drowns the intruder In showers of sparks - oh Ali! Ali! Esu with faces turned to all four compass points Astride a weather vane; they sought to trap him, Slapped the wind each time. He brings a message-- All know the messenger, the neighbourhood is roused – Yet no one sees his face, he waits for no reply, Only that combination three-four calling card, The wasp-tail legend: I’ve been here and gone. Mortar that goads the pestle: do you call that Pounding? The yam is not yet smooth – Pound, dope, pound! When I have eaten the yam, I’ll chew the fibre that once called itself A pestle! Warrior who said, “I will not fight”. And proved a prophet’s call to arms against a war. Cassius Marcellus, Warrior, Muhammed Prophet, Flesh is clay, all, all too brittle mould. The bout is over. Frayed and split and autographed, The gloves are hung up in the Hall of Fame – Still loaded, even from that first blaze of gold And glory. Awed multitudes will gaze, New questers feast on these mementos And from their shell-shocked remnants Re-invoke the spell. But the sorcerer is gone, The lion withdrawn to a lair of time and space Inaccessible as the sacred lining of a crown When kings were kings, and lords of rhyme and pace. The enchantment is over but, the spell remains.