the shadows
(L. Macneice, W.H. Davies, W.B. Yeats, R. Hodgson,
D.H. Lawrence, H. MacDiarmid, R. Graves, B. Bunting,
V. Watkins, W.H. Auden, L. Durrel, F.T. Prince, J. Cornford,
K. Amis, J. Kirkup, E. Jennings, C. Logue, A. Thwaite,
P. Larkin, M. Hamburger, T.S. Eliot, J. Squire, G. Gould,
S. Sassoon, R. Brooke, E. Muir, J. Grenfell)
by Roberto Lavidez
before me
floats
an image
man or
shade
shade more
than man
more image
than a shade
dreaming
of a day
less dim
dreaming
of a time
less far
I do not
want to be
reflective
any more
envying and
despising
unreflective
things
I hear
leaves
drinking
rain
I hear
rich leaves
on top
giving
the poor
beneath
drop after
drop
not I
not I
but the
wind that
blows
through me
a fine wind
is blowing
the new
direction
of time
for years
slept badly
who does not?
took bribes
and drugs
ate far
too much
and dreamed
married
unwisely
yes
but died
quite well
I should not
say so
nothing
so human
I will
tell you
keep still
if you
really
want to
know
I am old
nothing
interests me
now
moreover
I am not
very
intelligent
and my ideas
have travelled
no further
than my feet
I thought
of age and
loneliness
and change
I thought
how strange
we grow
when we’re
alone
my thought
and theory
which you
have forgotten
these things
have served
their purpose
let them be
the huge
abstractions
I kept from
the light
small things
I handled
and caressed
and loved
I let the
stars assume
the whole
of night
all’s pathos now
the body that
was gross
rank
ravenous
disgusting
in the act
or in repose
all fever
filth and
sweat
it’s bestial
strength
and bestial
decay
by pain
and labour
grows
at length
fragile and
luminous
heart of
the heartless
world
dear heart
the thought
of you
is the pain
at my side
the shadow
that chills
my view
the usual
steely
expression
of my eyes
does not
flatter me
few birds
perhaps
have so
successfully
solved
the problem
of existence
oh!
there’s
nothing to
complain about
Buddha says
none of the
world is good
I am fond
of my hut…
no argument
no anger
no remorse
no dividing
of blame
there was
poison
in the cup
why should
we ask from
whose hand
it came?
there is
a city
we must
build with
joy
exactly
where the
fallen city
sleeps
we can
forget
those times
we sat up
half the
night
chockfull
of love
crammed
with bright
thoughts
names
rhymes and
couldn’t
write
ways
I recall
transitions
the shadows
the colours
turning herbs
acrid or heady
sweet wives
the world over
sweet virgins
walking where
they belong
hours giving
evidence or
birth
advance
on death
equally
slowly
and saying
so to some
means
nothing
others
it leaves
nothing
to be said
I nearly
learned
life’s lesson
but not quite:
I touched
the skirts
of purity-
in-passion
say
is there
beauty yet
to find?
and
certaintyand quiet
kind?
deep
meadows
yet
for to
forget
the lies
and truths
and pain?
her little
voice
becomes
for me
the voice of
the unintelligible
universe
beautiful and
appalling
love is exempt
from time
and that
is true
but we
the loved
and the
lover
we grow
old
only the
truth
the truth
is always
new
you with
a curious
nervous
elegance
laid bare
the root
of life
and put
your finger
on its
beating heart
spirit is willing
to repeat
without
a qualm
the same
old talk
but flesh is
homesick
for our snug
apartment
in New York
not many
trains today
not many
are waiting
for trains
or waiting
for anything
except for
the time
to pass
©robertolavidez2014
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