poetry

LAST QUARTEROn the eighth day of bliss, they rosealoft,Enveloped and wound in a celestialhaze.The mist vaporised in a steaming whirlAs the lovers sped off at a chase –The peepers stumbled forward into thebogScrambled, and crawled at a loss.They cam upon the love bed departed –A crater shot-hot with the host;They tumbled into the heat of the holeTo discover their vision miraculous restored;But never again did the peepers experienceHeather and Pete making love in thebog.WEEK 59POETRY IS DEADThere is little point saying somethingWhen there is nothing to say.Having declared that poetry is dead,Where now can this long work lead?If there is a resurrection, thenWho shall witness and proclaim it?Surely not the critics, the closet hacks,The ones who invent meaning, yet denyit!No, if Poetry is to live in spirit, not material,Then it is in the voice of youth we’llfind it,Not on the tongues of middle-aging capitalists,Secure in their homes, secure in versedhypocrisy.For were it not for reasons less importantThan a personal commitment to myself,I would give up this diary of event –And believe indeed that POETRY ISDEAD.For when all is said and done –I still turn in recoil from natureTo attack all that has gone wrongIn Poetry since I began this sojourn.Like the hour before the battle lours,I see the hordes of hacks advancing,Their armour dull, their plumaged jaundiced,Smearing bile on all they trample.Yet I should ignore all conflict,And turn my face to gaze uponThe beauty of wild nature; seek the sublimeHidden from the know of city dwellers.For when man is sick of his fellow man,He should renounce all that is material –Travel to a landscape right for solitude,Or seascape sedative, to reshape hishostility.And there, on the barren hills of nowhere,Out upon the wild waves of ocean,Poetry may come to a listening manAnd fill him with the resurrecting spiritThat eludes the urban guru – the cityHack pounding his machine for copy.For if Poetry is dead, there is no body,Only a spirit waiting where few menwander.WEEK 60Exam results – how we trembleTo hear that we are not geniuses.(i) LIVING OFF THE STATETo hell – its summer,Time to hit the beaches,Forget all the book crap.208