Written by
Robert William Service |
Aye, Montecelli, that's the name.
You may have heard of him perhaps.
Yet though he never savoured fame,
Of those impressionistic chaps,
Monet and Manet and Renoir
He was the avatar.
He festered in a Marseilles slum,
A starving genius, god-inspired.
You'd take him for a lousy bum,
Tho' poetry of paint he lyred,
In dreamy pastels each a gem: . . .
How people laughed at them!
He peddled paint from bar to bar;
From sordid rags a jewel shone,
A glow of joy and colour far
From filth of fortune woe-begone.
'Just twenty francs,' he shyly said,
'To take me drunk to bed.'
Of Van Gogh and Cezanne a peer;
In dreams of ecstasy enskied,
A genius and a pioneer,
Poor, paralysed and mad he died:
Yet by all who hold Beauty dear
May he be glorified!
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Written by
Rg Gregory |
(i)
i believed in flower-power (the triumph of the meek)
the thought that what a wind could bend was not to be
derided for its weakness but known to draw its calm
from a corporate sense of self (its many-ed history)
that tyranny (in the long blow) lacked the will to break
that heaped-up suffering gave to sufferers a balm
and through such evolution (such dog-eared mystery)
there would grow an end to the strong is right mystique
and that ordinariness unarmed (however weak its knee)
could hymn its own upstanding (as honoured as a psalm)
i believed in flower-power (the triumph of the meek)
though evidence was mocking (less song than threnody)
i savoured the impossible without a qualm
(ii)
and sought to make it practical – to bed worn earth
with a seed that tried to answer those dire conundrums
(making of every longed-for scene a landscape bleak)
to bring exciting prospects to a life of humdrums
reveal the spirit-ordinary in its dancing worth
yet the visions my dreams gave voice to failed to speak
they fell foul (inevitably) of panjamdrums
but even amongst those who grasped a notion of their girth
not one could get the fullest beatings of these sun-drums
the simple clarity the dreams had turned opaque
and after thirty years (too frayed to fight such dearth)
who should know better (so much beaten by life’s tantrums)
i believe in flower-power (the triumph of the meek)
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Written by
Seamus Heaney |
As a child, they could not keep me from wells
And old pumps with buckets and windlasses.
I loved the dark drop, the trapped sky, the smells
Of waterweed, fungus and dank moss.
One, in a brickyard, with a rotted board top.
I savoured the rich crash when a bucket
Plummeted down at the end of a rope.
So deep you saw no reflection in it.
A shallow one under a dry stone ditch
Fructified like any aquarium.
When you dragged out long roots from the soft mulch
A white face hovered over the bottom.
Others had echoes, gave back your own call
With a clean new music in it. And one
Was scaresome, for there, out of ferns and tall
Foxgloves, a rat slapped across my reflection.
Now, to pry into roots, to finger slime,
To stare, big-eyed Narcissus, into some spring
Is beneath all adult dignity. I rhyme
To see myself, to set the darkness echoing.
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