Wednesday, 30 June 2010
George Szirtes' poem NOT from beyond the grave!
As a divertimento a poem now from an undead poet!
The usual self-assembly rules apply. Only one line from any poem is allowed. All the selected lines are then assembled to make the new poem.
The LIVING poet George Szirtes has generously given Poet-in-Residence permission to abuse his work in this way.
The beyond the grave series will continue in the near future with Ted Hughes and Sylvia Plath jointly producing a new poem from the beyond. They will contribute alternate lines.
But now back to George Szirtes:
George Szirtes' poem NOT from beyond the grave
Even here there are shadows of places: serene,
no bigger than flies. If I strain my ears
I know you are there, somewhere above
heads bobbing like a shooting gallery
and all too small or piqued or plentiful.
I was nothing and the grass was nothing,
celestial and perfect, more or less.
The question is where you go. Come hope, come home.
It is night in the zoo of the universe. Stars lurk
somewhere in the halo of the lamp.
We feed on nonsense whatever it may mean.
The winter is not metaphorical.
In the plenitude of etcetera comes a fullness
strangely moved. It was a long time ago.