Sunday, 25 March 2018

Of a type...


Of a type...




He wrote of Smiley in some books
on spies and moles and Soviet spooks
and all his Cold War Communists,
unlike the outlaws stetsoned black,
wore shadow-grey and belted macs
and ran their double-agent lists.

He showed us villains in his plots
and spawned a genre sparse of shots
and running fights, for his Berlin
was black and white beneath the fog,
had cobbles wet with rain, not blood,
had nothing of a type developed in...

Thursday, 15 March 2018

Portrait of the Artist after Death



Portrait of the Artist after Death




He wrote of startled birth and death's benign front door
And told us we must rage, rage for all we're worth
Against the porter’s hail, well met and fading at an age
When wanton whorls of worthy words should not fail
To guide and stir, be read aloud and make ears dirl.

He brought us under Milk Wood’s tract, to Rosie and Dai Bread
And bought a one-way ticket for a train that never slacked,
That was franked by Evans Death in his role as acting picket
(Ah, the undertaker baits with his shrouded coffin breath,
Under vows to veil the truth, feigning pity while he waits).

He was drowned by eggings-on, but in poems performed from youth
Until good night, there shines a master's gift. His dominion
Conquered death in bronze and brass and boundless books, in lines
And stanzas writ un-spancelled by the down-draught in his glass,
’Til the masthead on the floor was lowered, coughing, cancelled. 



Image attribution: By Ham - Own work, CC BY-SA 4.0, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=35336372