From 80 Further Quatrains

On the Mantelpiece

A heathern spray I placed of late
Before this mask, upon this drum.
All gods must I propitiate,
As: Venus, Xango, Kingdom Come.

Sloane Ranger

Engaging air, white face, dark brow;
Young, succulent and jean-clad cow -
For you, Old Boy, a moment's flare
And many midnights of despair.

Verlaine Repentant

Though he continued rhyming free
His soul was out of jeopardy -
Yet his conversation didn't scan
For where's there's poetry there's Pan.

Turgenev or Lenin

A realm of silver birch trees in their pride;
They reach into a pale blue sky, cloud-free.
The scent of lime across the countryside.
The wind, a dusty wind, blows constantly.

The Tourist

Long years of work on music no one needs;
A book of verse, drawn from a withered rose;
A room well stocked with books, those jewel seeds:
The Tourist rises, pays, and quietly goes.

Brittany

His sun-bright destrier pawed the air,
All legend on a silver cloud;
I could not pull the stanza square -
Whereat King Arthur laughed aloud.

¶

In golden mid-October days
The Poet wanders through the park.
A mellowing tree, an inwrought phrase -
Another year has left its mark.

The Bear

Denizen of unending snow and ice,
He's been translated to a world of men
Who leave him, captive, to his own device
And to the Polar Circle of his pen.