Poet Dead
[after Rilke]
Laid down, his upraised face is
White – offputting – on a plumped pillow.
How life takes the He-Who-Knows
And His senses and disallows,
Absorbs to the year’s disimpetuousness.
Saw Him alive did the comparative dunce:
me. I saw Him, one so one with these
(His right) heights, valley, trees,
Rivers. They became his countenance.
That countenance. To it the rural scene
Tweets, cups, cherishes
Yet, round His mask. The man perishes
Soft as a peeled sweet tangerine
Sings to the sky, where no flesh is.
Ira Lightman has been popping up on Radio 4 for seventeen years and finally realised someone else has to nominate you for Pick of the Week to have any chance of featuring. His latest book A DADA DADDY, ebook only, makes a virtue out of changing the line breaks as you zoom in and out. Available from nearly no retailers except a bad one. Buy him a coffee sometimes but don’t make him drink it. He copy-edits and copy-writes yet hates plagiarism.