Where are these men who vow’d to save our land?
When God’s great voice assembles
The fleet on Judgement Day
The ghosts of ruined ships will rise
Desquamately descending Olympus,
Some tousl’d, fretless urchin on the slopes,
Some tenderfoot searching for Maecenas,
Some lively cornucopia of hopes;
Down happy trails,
Orpheus in these heels,
My song & subject sails & with my spirit seals.
It seems the years of World War Two
More my modern Trojan War,
Enough to elevate our view
Over all those wars before,
Herr Hitler & his surly crew
Denied that cancer-core,
As far from them, & those who courted Mars,
We whistle to Tchaikovsky in our cars.
As soon as I stood sub-montane
I raced off round the bay
To board my plane, like sugar-cane
This poem by me lay,
Awaiting editorial some golden, doric day.
Thy spirit, Independence, let me share :
Lord of the lion heart & eagle eye,
Thy steps I follow with my bosom bare
These lyrics, rinky-dinking cross the world,
Sing how a famous Age once came to be,
When over all a single flag unfurl’d,
Winging its winningest democracy;
Deeds Evil thee dost fear,
Shunning thy lawful guns these, scuttling, disappear.
Ye were late-welcom’d to the stage,
But thank the Lord ye made it,
Those battles which ancestors wage
A debt to all who paid it,
& still ye stand, set to engage,
Conlict as ye’ll grade it:
A tomcat tackling were-mice with proud paws,
Dowsing those flashfires with rosewater’d hose.
Future Pendragons praise the West!
Law Lords of Liberty!
An Eagle’s nest of conscience, lest
This World would not feel free,
To do those things we love to do wherever we may be!
All that mortal man possesses
has mortality & passes;
everything goes hurrying past
The age of frigging empire is over,
The time for global harmony arriv’d,
World flocks to Heathrow, Stanstead & Dover
For here the truce Olympic has survived;
Among the crowd
Three blood-lines in a row,
Of native athletes proud, watching the discuss throw…
While Stiltskis cheer for young Ukraine
The Sumners cheer for Britain,
& for their blond, Aryan mane,
The Stemmler clan still smitten,
All share the surge, & there obtain
Phrenzies long verboten,
For only in the realms of friendly sport
Our ancient tribal urgencies now fought.
Amidst the Stratford stratosphere
All nations’ banners fly,
A final cheer, a tiny tear
Swells in old Tommy’s eye
For this is what he’d fought for, for the friends he’d once seen die.
Buried was the dreadful war-club,
Buried were all warlike weapons,
And the war-cry was forgotten
Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
Ye men shall speak of us with sheer disgust,
How on Earth could we have let War happen,
To thee I leave this tryptychrie in trust,
So things like these should not occur again:
A grievous weight,
Beginning on this date for all futurity!
At this collective crossroads stands
The Equinox procession,
Auspicious moment for all lands
Aquarius in session,
Come seize existence in our hands
Drag it from recession,
When with the solstice & the sun-align’d,
We’ll leave our bleak barbarians behind
I watch the blizzard snow-fall flake
The land with blanchless white,
& sens’d the break, the World’s remake,
A thaw must come tonight,
& in the morn, all baby fresh, the future beaming bright!
This age her whole loveliness maul’d
batter’d & barren from a six year’s bout
so trod & torn, grossness itself defiled
Whom of the future could vile Mars defend?
His ossiary of the World full-boned,
Oer-brimming with dim pathos at the end
Of slaughters calculated & condoned;
Mankind made to endure,
Maturing, more or less, we find, at last, the cure.
Warfare hath flown, per dans cette terre,
Le mort caches sont bien,
Borders are open everywhere
To every European,
Whose ancestors dark trials did share,
Hauled below the Scaean
Unnumber’d, multitudinous, immense –
How many lives robb’d of life’s innocence?
Asoka’s edicts I have seen
War’s monuments may you,
Days pass’d have been disturb’d, obscene,
But from the gore their grew
This peaceful pearl, this precious planetary parvenu!
I am not a mirage, but a being in flesh
Born of a sea that has neither
Waves nor shore, nor moon, nor star
When two traditions meet in epic song,
There history & poetry converge
Upon a point called nexus, whence among
Man’s consciousness progressive senses merge;
Tilling the soil,
Planting these sapling shoots,
Which over time uncoil as fields of figs & fruits.
So grow, ye lotus-burnish’d gold,
Ye zest-infested lemon,
Go store these tales of glories old
For future to look back on,
Five thousand years must now unfold
Before this age is run;
Half-way, of course, some Homer might arise
& half-an-age in poesy realize.
I paced the slopes up Pendle Hill
Upon that Christmas Day,
The weather chill, the heather still,
With one small thing to say –
If destiny lies in our hands let them for laughter
A troubadour, I traverse all my land
exploring all her wide-flung parts with zest
probing in motion sweeter far than rest
Coleridge said Poets twenty years should spend
Upon their epics, mine took just fifteen,
Eleven for to find its natural end
& four to polish, punctuate & clean;
I settl’d in the North,
On Roseberry’s estate beside the Frisian Forth.
Up Skye I drove, by Coral Beach,
To fumigate these stanzas
& leave a ministry to reach,
From Kowloon Bay to Kansas,
This global mind, when I shall teach
Poetry & Panzers
To all who’d care to listen to this song,
Before a better songsmith flits among.
To thee, old friend, our baton pass’d,
In thee lives Homer’s throne,
The years roll fast… eftsoons… at last,
Thy song shall set in stone,
Scratching the zephyrs’ tapers with thy breathless stylophone.
A gentle wind fans the calm night:
A bright moon shines on the high tower.
A voice whispers, but no one answers when I call
My friends, interdependent every one,
Mankind must now exist & sing & laugh;
Obama stands before a rising sun
Below the world-immortal cenotaph;
So many names
Oerframe him, etch’d in stone,
Ash-flashes in the flames of Heaven’s vulcan groan.
“Seven decades long before us
Death fell newfound from the skies,
Souls firmamenting speak to us,
Their lamenting, silent cries,
Flying voices in a chorus
Of miseries & sighs,
In future days let peace all problems solve,
& morals, science, ever outevolve.”
The leader of a new Japan
Agreed with all there said,
An honest man, a kido-san,
He drops his solemn head
& shed a tear for Hiroshima’s hundred thousand dead.
My tale was heard, & yet it was not told;
My fruit is fall’n, & yet my leaves are green;
My youth is spent, & yet I am not old
O Muses! What a wonder did we write,
So many inky scribbles on a page,
Leaving the path, & stepping to the right,
We’ve reach’d the velvet roads of middle age;
A perfect time
To set my spirit free
From histrionic rhyme, my mistress melody.
Last stroll I took, thro’ bluebell woods,
On our fern-life’s fairy frond,
Burst butterflies from bubbling buds
By the Younger’s gorgeous pond,
To sing, like Templars under hoods,
My song, here & beyond,
In summer sun, yet rising, still alive;
Soon all is done, aye, in a line or five.
While sat amidst the garden joys
That are my task’s reward,
With perfect poise my muse employs
This moment, soul-restor’d,
I’ll cast my pen in level lake like Arthur’s Elfen sword.