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Standing aloof in giant ignorance, Of thee I hear and of the Cyclades, As one who sits ashore and longs perchance To visit dolphin-coral in deep seas. So thou wast blind;—but then the veil was rent, For Jove uncurtain'd Heaven to let thee live, And Neptune made for thee a spumy tent, And Pan made sing for thee his forest-hive; Aye on the shores of darkness there is light, And precipices show untrodden green, There is a budding morrow in midnight, There is a triple sight in blindness keen; Such seeing hadst thou, as it once befel To Dian, Queen of Earth, and Heaven, and Hell.

Know, that I would accounted be True brother of a company That sang, to sweeten Ireland's wrong, Ballad and story, rann and song; Nor be I any less of them, Because the red-rose-bordered hem Of her, whose history began Before God made the angelic clan, Trails all about the written page. When Time began to rant and rage The measure of her flying feet Made Ireland's heart begin to beat; And Time bade all his candles flare To light a measure here and there; And may the thoughts of Ireland brood Upon a measured quietude. Nor may I less be counted one With Davis, Mangan, Ferguson, Because, to him who ponders well, My rhymes more than their rhyming tell Of things discovered in the deep, Where only body's laid asleep. For the elemental creatures go About my table to and fro, That hurry from unmeasured mind To rant and rage in flood and wind; Yet he who treads in measured ways May surely barter gaze for gaze. Man ever journeys on with them After the red-rose-bordered hem. Ah, faeries, dancing under the moon, A Druid land, a Druid tune! While still I may, I write for you The love I lived, the dream I knew. From our birthday, until we die, Is but the winking of an eye; And we, our singing and our love, What measurer Time has lit above, And all benighted things that go About my table to and fro, Are passing on to where may be, In truth's consuming ecstasy, No place for love and dream at all; For God goes by with white footfall. I cast my heart into my rhymes, That you, in the dim coming times, May know how my heart went with them After the red-rose-bordered hem.

The plane is packed and over sweaty heads, rumpled hair, the movie glows in the transatlantic nighttime murmur of priests and nuns and Riverdancers returning home—a baby is cooed by an older mother, a boy feels for his seat in the dark. I’ve read my books already, 2 days traveling, the difficulties technical.I hate that money, says the priest beside me, and he orders another scotch, his third. The Feast of the Epiphany tomorrow, he studies religious journals for a message, writes in a notebook impossibly small.We are having problems with sound, the flight attendant announces, it is not your headset, and so the oceans swell in silence, bright blue tumbles across the screen mutely, foam collapsing over a tiny nimble figure but she darts through to a green glow, sunshine through a veil of wave, her surfboard tense between her feet and the world’s largest ocean. Her ride is long, impossibly long—her hips stay low, a friend drops onto her wave and, together, they glide towards the shore. No music. Just water and that blue. I check the SkyMall catalogue for something I might need and didn’t know. There are reasons I am flying over the ocean, reasons I I wish I were sure of. Someday I might say,yes, I chose him, and it wasn’t wise. Or maybe we’ll be old and surrounded by our own. The screen flashes; the surf is wild, but the bright sky makes me whisper, Hawaii, where nothing could be that beautiful but is. The waves are bigger and she sets out, flowered bikini, hair pulled back in a serious bun. But too soon she’s underwater, arms above her head, spinning down into a champagne sea. The priest asks would I like some English chocolate. I say no at first then say yes. I say, how many Euros for the scotch? The baby Jesus is about to be adored by black men, foreign kings, in fact, tomorrow. They’re stumbling, the Magi, 12 days across an ocean and through the desert. It’s hot so they must travel at night— who wouldn’t? And there was that star, sudden and perhaps a sign. We’ve already tried to get there once, I want to say to the kings. It’s cool in this 747, which later the pilot will land with only one engine. A problem with compressors. But what a sweet, sweet ocean, and those few younger girls who try to ride it. And what a night, warmed by the sun-shocked smell of saddle and sweat, the strong breath of camels. What carved, fragrant trunkfuls born across deserts and ready to be opened before an infant god.

My Love? alas! I must not call you Mine, But to your envy’d Bride that Name resign: I must forget your lovely melting Charms, And be for ever Banisht from your Arms: For ever? oh! the Horror of that Sound! It gives my bleeding Heart a deadly wound: While I might hope, although my Hope was vain, It gave some Ease to my unpitty’d Pain, But now your Hymen doth all Hope exclude, And but to think is Sin; yet you intrude On every Thought; if I but close my Eyes, Methinks your pleasing Form besides me lies; With every Sigh I gently breath your Name, Yet no ill Thoughts pollute my hallow’d Flame; ’Tis pure and harmless, as a Lambent Fire, And never mingled with a warm Desire: All I have now to ask of Bounteous Heaven, Is, that your Perjuries may be forgiven: That she who you have with your Nuptials blest, As She’s the Happiest Wife, may prove the Best: That all our Joys may light on you alone, Then I can be contented to have none: And never wish that you shou’d kinder be, Than now and then, to cast a Thought on Me: And, Madam, though the Conquest you have won, Over my Strephon, has my hopes undone; I’le daily beg of Heaven, he may be Kinder to You, than he has been to Me.

The wind, that beats the mountain, blows More softly round the open wold, And gently comes the world to those That are cast in gentle mould. And me this knowledge bolder made, Or else I had not dare to flow In these words toward you, and invade Even with a verse your holy woe. 'Tis strange that those we lean on most, Those in whose laps our limbs are nursed, Fall into shadow, soonest lost: Those we love first are taken first. God gives us love. Something to love He lends us; but, when love is grown To ripeness, that on which it throve Falls off, and love is left alone. This is the curse of time. Alas! In grief I am not all unlearn'd; Once thro' mine own doors Death did pass; One went, who never hath return'd. He will not smile—not speak to me Once more. Two years his chair is seen Empty before us. That was he Without whose life I had not been. Your loss is rarer; for this star Rose with you thro' a little arc Of heaven, nor having wander'd far Shot on the sudden into dark. I knew your brother: his mute dust I honour and his living worth: A man more pure and bold and just Was never born into the earth. I have not look'd upon you nigh, Since that dear soul hath fall'n asleep. Great nature is more wise than I: I will not tell you not to weep. And tho' mine own eyes fill with dew, Drawn from the spirit thro' the brain, I will not even preach to you, "Weep, weeping dulls the inward pain." Let Grief be her own mistress still. She loveth her own anguish deep More than much pleasure. Let her will Be done—to weep or not to weep. I will not say "God's ordinance Of death is blown in every wind;" For that is not a common chance That takes away a noble mind. His memory long will live alone In all our hearts, as mournful light That broods above the fallen sun, And dwells in heaven half the night. Vain solace! Memory standing near Cast down her eyes, and in her throat Her voice seem'd distant, and a tear Dropt on the letters as I wrote. I wrote I know not what. In truth, How should I soothe you anyway, Who miss the brother of your youth? Yet something I did wish to say: For he too was a friend to me: Both are my friends, and my true breast Bleedeth for both: yet it may be That only silence suiteth best. Words weaker than your grief would make Grief more. 'Twere better I should cease; Although myself could almost take The place of him that sleeps in peace. Sleep sweetly, tender heart, in peace; Sleep, holy spirit, blessed soul, While the stars burn, the moons increase, And the great ages onward roll. Sleep till the end, true soul and sweet. Nothing comes to thee new or strange, Sleep full of rest from head to feet: Lie still, dry dust, secure of change.

The poet’s duties: no need to stress The subject’s dullness, nonetheless Here’s an incestuous address In Robert Burns’ style To one whom all the Muses bless At Great Turnstile. I’ve no excuses for this theme. Prescription is less popular than dream And little rhymes, God knows, can seem Much too laconic, Bollinger’s visionary gleam Turned gin-and-tonic. But ssch! you know and understand The way these verses have been planned: Gritty like little bits of sand Not shining quartz; No pulsing from a higher gland Just random thoughts. Let’s start by thinking of objectives. Poets hate to have directives: They’re on their own, not on collectives, Share and share about, And what inspires their best invectives Is what they care about. You,James, collapsed upon our sofa As though being driven by a chauffeur, Won’t fail to tell us what you go for: Managerial boobs And answers that you won’t take no for From Fine Tubes. Reporters never throw in towels. Their prose is written from the bowels. Ottava rima about owls Printed by Sycamore Is worlds away from Enoch Powell’s Plans for the blackamoor. But are you James Cameron or Flecker? Are you a maker or a trekker? What is the nature of your Mecca, Your verum pulchrum? I’m glad, of course, that you’re with Secker And not with Fulcrum. Poet and traveller have quarrelled And now you canter where you carolled. We’re waiting still for your Childe Harold, Though quests in Poland Find you fixated and apparelled More like Childe Roland. It is impressive, I agree, Although I know it’s not for me. I take the windfalls from the tree, I’m much too lazy, The prisons that I want to see By Piranesi. You say that Oxford has no marrow, Sucked dry by Trevor-Roper, Sparrow, And others of reaction’s farrow In their fat cloister, Though if my eye is just as narrow It may be moister. We never see our feelings through, And weeping only makes us blue. It may be beautiful and true But it’s not action, And nothing the bourgeoisie can do Gives satisfaction. How can we alter our behaviour? Should we deny our gravy’s gravier? Leave Cleopatra for Octavia? My life is inner, And someone I don’t think a saviour Is B. F. Skinner. Avoid that fashionable flock: To be refitted in their dock Your common-sense must take a knock As it took a course on The reflexes of frogs, and Locke, And P. F. Strawson. Much of the Left we can ignore (Sheer anarchy I don’t adore). The trendy educate the poor In greed and fear, While Labour’s entered on the war Of Jenkins’ ear. No. Righteous more than He who Hath, More reasonable than New Math, Momier than the Mome Rath In their outgrabing, Glossing the Variorum Plath From Krafft-Ebing, Apostles of determinism Whose hero’s Mao or Virgil Grissom Won’t interest your mind one rissom: You’re too empirical. What about Neo-Imagism? Impossibly lyrical. Such knowing brevity needs patience: As unfastidious Croatians Upon quite intimate occasions Shun body-talc, So leave your interpersonal relations To Colin Falck. For poetry to have some merit he Requires it to display sincerity, Each pronoun to convince posterity With deep emotion And an invigorating verity Like hair-lotion. Well, that’s unfair. I’m glad he lives. Just think of the alternatives! Those whose verse resembles sieves Or a diagram, And foul-mouthed transatlantic spivs Wooing Trigram. For they are all still with us,James, Fiddling among the flames, Brandishing the brittle fames They soon arrive at. It’s better not to mention names: They’ll wince in private. Orating offspring of Urania (No fault of yours that they’re not brainier) Have an immodest dogged mania For autobiography Disguised in concrete or the zanier Forms of typography. The wide-eyed audience they’re rooking Would secretly prefer a booking From a quartet like the backward-looking Rank Ailanthus They’d jump to hear what’s really cooking With the Black Panthers. Whatever props the poet uses, Whether he accepts, accuses Or gives up, he must know his Muse is A sensible girl. Even some antics of Ted Hughes’s Make her hair curl. And so you need a form to play About in but which will convey Something of what you want to say Without evasion, Adjusting like the Vicar of Bray To each occasion. The size you haven’t found as yet. What Nabokov calls the ‘triolet’ Is much too trim a maisonette To dawdle in, Unlike your shabby Cloisters set In Magdalen, Which made your poetry much dandier, Much like ottava rima, handier. You needed in its chilly grandeur To turn the fire on For times when you felt even randier Than Lord Byron. Still, you found sonnets quite inspiring Although some rhymes like ancient wiring Showed the circuits could prove tiring (Though not unduly, And no one could be more admiring Than Yours Truly). So carry on: your talents hum. No one will ever find you dumb While you avoid the slightly rum Like the White Goddess Or Black Mountain(and don’t become Roger Woddis). I’ll send a sub to the IS (Please let me know the right address) I shan’t turn up, but I confess I’m not a traitor. I just don’t want to think the less Of Teresa Hayter. Some day I’ll join you in the street Where suffering and truth must meet: It isn’t easy not to feel effete This side of anguish, When those who can’t choose what to eat Don’t speak our language. Meanwhile we have to try to bring Some order to that circus ring Where people think and feel and sing, For at its centre There’s no escape from anything, And we must enter.

Best and brightest, come away! Fairer far than this fair Day, Which, like thee to those in sorrow, Comes to bid a sweet good-morrow To the rough Year just awake In its cradle on the brake. The Brightest hour of unborn Spring, Through the winter wandering, Found, it seems, the halcyon Morn To hoar February born. Bending from Heaven, in azure mirth, It kissed the forehead of the Earth, And smiled upon the silent sea, And bade the frozen streams be free, And waked to music all their fountains, And breathed upon the frozen mountains, And like a prophetess of May Strewed flowers upon the barren way, Making the wintry world appear Like one on whom thou smilest, dear. Away, away, from men and towns, To the wild wood and the downs— To the silent wilderness Where the soul need not repress Its music lest it should not find An echo in another’s mind. While the touch of Nature’s art Harmonizes heart to heart. I leave this notice on my door For each accustomed visitor:— “I am gone into the fields To take what this sweet hour yields;— Reflection, you may come tomorrow, Sit by the fireside with Sorrow.— You with the unpaid bill, Despair,— You, tiresome verse-reciter, Care,— I will pay you in the grave,— Death will listen to your stave. Expectation too, be off! Today is for itself enough; Hope, in pity mock not Woe With smiles, nor follow where I go; Long having lived on thy sweet food, At length I find one moment’s good After long pain—with all your love, This you never told me of.” Radiant Sister of the Day, Awake! arise! And come away! To the wild woods and the plains, And the pools where winter rains Image all their roof of leaves, Where the pine its garland weaves Of sapless green, and ivy dun Round stems that never kiss the sun: Where the lawns and pastures be, And the sandhills of the sea:— Where the melting hoar-frost wets The daisy-star that never sets, And wind-flowers, and violets, Which yet join not scent to hue, Crown the pale year weak and new; When the night is left behind In the deep east, dun and blind, And the blue noon is over us, And the multitudinous Billows murmur at our feet, Where the earth and ocean meet, And all things seem only one In the universal sun.

Donne, the delight of Phoebus and each Muse Who, to thy one, all other brains refuse; Whose every work of thy most early wit Came forth example, and remains so yet; Longer a-knowing than most wits do live; And which no affection praise enough can give! To it, thy language, letters, arts, best life, Which might with half mankind maintain a strife. All which I meant to praise, and yet I would; But leave, because I cannot as I should!

I only recognized your hair: short, neatly combed. Our mother would’ve been proud. In the Sonoran desert your body became a slaughter- house where faith and want were stunned, hung upside down, gutted. We were taught to bring roses, to aim for the bush. Remember? You tried to pork a girl’s armpit. In Border Patrol jargon, the word for border crossers is the same whether they’re alive or dead. When I read his flesh fell off the bones, my stomach rumbled, my mouth watered. Yesterday, our mother said, “My high heels are killing me. Let’s go back to the funeral.” You were always her favorite. Slow cooking a roast melts the tough tissue between the muscle fibers; tender meat remains. Remember the time I caught you pissing on a dog? You turned away from me. In the small of your back I thought I saw a face. Split lip, broken nose. It was a mask. I yanked it from your flesh. I wear it often.

All morning, you’ve studied the laws of spoons, the rules of books, the dynamics of the occasional plate, observed the principles governing objects in motion and objects at rest.  To see if it will fall, and if it does, how far, if it will rage like a lost penny or ring like a Chinese gong—because it doesn’t have to—you lean from your chair and hold your cup over the floor. It curves in your hand, it weighs in your palm, it arches like a wave, it is a dipper full of stars, and you’re the wind timing the pull of the moon, you’re the water measuring the distance from which we fall.