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"Like a piece of ice on a hot stove the poem must ride on its own melting." Robert Frost 


 
"Bees Under Milk Wood : A Spell"



Spider Web glistens wet 
in the spoilt lies of a new moon
Milkwood’s just another street 
Black Cat spreads it’s legs 
it licks it’s own wounds

Love in the Asylum 
a turn of good fortunes
Sylvia holds out her arms 
Dylan folds into her warm 
bosom and swoons

Sylvia smiles a ripped sail
safe harbour opening her mind’s ocean
Shark’s circling her 
Bees in their Bell Jar brood
How soon the servant sun comes running

Life’s not yet over 
Life’s Riddle taunts provoking
 
Where is the love in a Poet?
In the heart or the ego forsooth?

Take the razor, cut pale skin 
draw crimson cross over wrists,
two oceans uniting blood boiling make a pact
intellects somersault cardinal sin reckoning
sabre tooth twins tryst in a hot honeyed bath

Try kissing the morrow
Honey melting hot lips part
tongues duel en garde
Blood Sparrows tear the white skin 
of untouched pages apart

Where is the love in a Poet?
In the heart or the ego forsooth?

Shuffle the deck, cut the pack
deal the rebels with brave racing hearts

Take the nib, dip in black ink 
draw new stories unequipped yet ever so sharp
Wrists over new minds unite never sink
Held like lovers burning in fire, two black dogs bark 
Fuel the sparks light the pyre, 
words in the windows of this world dance naked 
borne evergreen drowning in Absynthe 
deep bonfires duelling desire

Ten times written blarney licks 
deadly nightshade roots
Bees in the Bell Jar
Knock ardently on her roof
Milkwood swallows her rhubarb smile and 
pulls her wasted into him, evanescence their sin

Black is her heart
Vivid Blue is his night

He whispers flirtatiously,
“Tis my condition not profession to write you these lullabies.”

She sighs, like a minx,
“In your mind, there my bees will always sting you and fly – 
you shall never go gently into that good night.”

He holds her gently and replies,
“You know you really are a Wasp milking honey, but never fear, 
I will always stay by your side, ne'er apart, always near
through all of the good and all of the bad by and by”.


(Lovejoy-Burton/August 2018)




“Kiss me, and you will see how important I am.” 
Sylvia Plath

"The best craftsmanship always leaves holes and gaps... so that something that is not in the poem can creep, crawl, flash or thunder in."
Dylan Thomas

“I saw my life branching out before me like the green fig tree in the story. From the tip of every branch, like a fat purple fig, a wonderful future beckoned and winked. One fig was a husband and a happy home and children, and another fig was a famous poet and another fig was a brilliant professor, and another fig was Ee Gee, the amazing editor, and another fig was Europe and Africa and South America, and another fig was Constantin and Socrates and Attila and a pack of other lovers with queer names and offbeat professions, and another fig was an Olympic lady crew champion, and beyond and above these figs were many more figs I couldn't quite make out. I saw myself sitting in the crotch of this fig tree, starving to death, just because I couldn't make up my mind which of the figs I would choose. I wanted each and every one of them, but choosing one meant losing all the rest, and, as I sat there, unable to decide, the figs began to wrinkle and go black, and, one by one, they plopped to the ground at my feet.” 
Sylvia Plath, The Bell Jar

"Poetry is not the most important thing in life... I'd much rather lie in a hot bath reading Agatha Christie and sucking sweets."
Dylan Thomas
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