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Milton fell to hand once I had finished my
Anthology, nine hundred-odd, unpleasant pages,
Festooned here and there with gems, a garter
Of Elizabethans, little after, almost nothing,
Club-foot rhymers, mawkish odes to grieving
Lovers, “doths” and “thous.” Oases, such as
Blake and Coleridge, and Hopkins, Eliot,
Appeared but rarely. I was parched, but,
With that death march done at last, I find
Relief within the John. I bathe in gently
Flowing iambs, undisturbed by raucous
Rhymes, and, smiling broadly, tell myself
That paradise has been regained.



Poetry by Lawrence Beck The PoetBay support member heart!
Read 156 times
Written on 2019-02-21 at 15:52

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