Empty poem
A fourteen-storey block of flats to let,
as vacant as this poet’s idle mind,
conceals its still uncurtained rooms behind
closed doors on quiet landings that have yet
to frame a furtive kiss or cigarette,
the burstings into tears, all those blind
impetuous departures of a kind
the young can contemplate without regret.
You’ll find no samovars or gilded chairs,
no frescos or mosaic floors that might
disturb the calm, domestic monochrome.
Only the evening shadow climbs the stairs
from this plain entrance hall. Turn on the light.
Now come on up and make yourself at home.
Folly
I built a handsome house of love adorned
in every niche and frieze with images
of her, its stately porticos, its lawned
and bordered gardens graced with goddesses
all picturing in stone her regal face
and slender frame, her dainty sandaled feet.
Who could resist the charm of such a place?
As soon as my bold project was complete
she came, inspected, and was not detained.
Alone now on the terrace I recall
that innocent excess, my certain fall,
and seem to see around me in this stained
and weathered monument to love stillborn,
transmuted, multiplied, her look of scorn.
Farmer friend
Do you remember when, half drunk that night,
we tip-toed to the barn, guns loaded, then
kicked in the door and, thumping on the light,
let fly at startled, scrambling rats? Or when,
fighting with that old Fordson in the lane,
you riding nonchalantly on the rake,
I brought us storming home before the rain,
bawling some awful song about heartbreak?
It’s decades since I left, lost pal of mine.
Returned, a smaller steering wheel in hand,
my different self is peering at a sign
that says you’re still the steward of this land.
If you were me now, would you hesitate
to take the chance and turn in at the gate?
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