[lit-ideas] Re: SUNDAY POEM

  • From: David Ritchie <ritchierd@xxxxxxxxxxxxx>
  • To: lit-ideas@xxxxxxxxxxxxx
  • Date: Sun, 25 Mar 2007 15:41:51 -0700

(You'll need your Scottish accent for this one.)

Late one night after a long walk into the wind,
we sat at one of those small tables
in a pub on the South Wales border,
out by Tintern Abbey way,
no one saying a thing,
until we all got locked in,
safe from the prying eyes of the boys in blue.

It was just after I bought a Minah bird,
that once belonged to John Cage,
which, whenever there was a rustle of papers,
would quote verses by George Wither,
who was a minor poet,
long dead that night.

You'll maybe recall there was also a fellow of that name appearing with the Dowie Houms of Yarrow,
who opened for Reeds of Innocence at the Ilchester Cheese Festival?

It's so hard to say now exactly how the rest went,
but I do remember those amorous glow-worms of the sky,
Fair Fidele's grassy tomb,
which fast by the living whole--
the b side of the song of Callicles--
was backed by balms of Spring.

And then?
There was many an old forgotten tune in the blue juke box.

My advice therefore is to keep going.
If you get to a pub called the Earl of Lytton,
or if you come across a spot where the water-blossoms glister,
or stop by number 861 where Gilbert Parker lives,
your best bet will be to come home by Innisfree and the Death of Sir Philip Sidney, I think.
Or maybe just taste a little bit of Burns.

Of course, you could just go along like one of those well-started pedestrians
we hear so much about.
And vote for.
Your choice.

If we had but world enough, and time,
and you had a bit more patience,
I'd stand you another round.
I would.
It's the truth.

David Ritchie,
Portland, Oregon

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