One and T’other

 

Reply to a friend daft enough to argue about Tolkien

 

Elves aren’t dwarves, our clever Nige.

You stated dwarves; stay with ‘em,

but if you can’t, then I’ll oblige,

offset your try at schism

in fairyland and in the halls

of Gloomendale, where dwarves of might

stay mini-men, where stately balls

are often danced throughout the night.

So, how to tell that dwarves aren’t elves?

There’s something you’re not seeing:

elves’ ears have points; they know themselves

           by such. A dwarf’s a different being.

Evening’s Arrival

He’d dug all morning up by the hive,

stood stooped with ache, in time

to watch bees rob rose-heads.

Evening drones through the green

where his head nods, drops,

beating time with the bee and the rose

and the uniform day dulling to dusk.

Under the weight of the last fumbler,

shed petals, limp over making time,

desert their show when seed

withdraws intact to the hip.

 

The Last of It

 

Response to "Wildflower Meadow, Medawisla" by Stephanie Burt

Oh, God - d,

despair darkly

when none of

them needs more

than pomes

rotting aground

 

before the last

trump hockets

and all seeds leave.

The original poem is here.

Fed Up and Far from Home

 

Dear God,

               It’s hard down here. I often find

it difficult to know what’s in your mind

when you say, “Live,” and, “Be.” It seems you keep

your purpose to yourself, for life is sleep

to us, and, being, in your absence, blind

to all your greater ways, the world’s unkind

in what it can reveal – the twist and bind

round every stacked-up pain that we two reap.

                Dear God!

We quarrel so. It’s certain we’re designed

to hurt; the fault lies there and you’re behind

it. Why? It makes no sense that we’re to leap

towards you, crash and scatter in a heap

of husks. So, which of us is more maligned,

               Dear God?

Evermore

Raeburn’s  Rev. Dr Robert Walker Skating on Duddingston Loch, c. 1789

Eyes directed

beyond the frame,

paint forced gliding

where winter froze,

no world his ground

but a state of snow.

Thin steel scarring

sheared the groove;

clamped to the loch,

he interprets the ice

at the blade's edge,

only the ice.

Take your Pick

 

Lupercalia was a hit

before St V. got hold of it.

Drunks and wolves and lots of lashing

helped elevate a ritual bashing.

It’s better than being a cooing dove

canoodling in the trees above,

missing vicious Cupid’s darts

aimed at your internal parts.

Make your choice. Why be a victim?

If an oppressor out to lick him

into chocolate-hearted shape,

first seal his mouth with sticky tape.