Sunday, 24 October 2010
A poem for W H Auden
Polishing the glass
W H Auden died in Vienna,
I tell the barman polishing the glass
That some day we could die here too.
It's after two on a gloomy afternoon.
Vienna's where we are I say. He says it'll have to do.
The corner bar we are in is on the other end
Of the street from where he died
In his flat near the Moulin Rouge.
In Finnegans Pub many things are green,-
The doors, the window frames, the phone box,
The shelves for the books, the bar, the stools
At the bar. The beer I drink is black and smooth
As one of Auden's rhymes. Perhaps it's here
That I'll have my wake. Auden's name is in
Joyce's book - page two-seven-nine -
A one word sentence. A footnote. Auden.
note: the real name of the bar is Flannagan's