For Jim
Their lives are not at all as mine.
They loll in drawing rooms and
Copses, offices on campuses with
Windows beneath leafy trees.
They have the time to make their
Rhymes, and vigor, which I lack
These days. They do not rise
At three o'clock and toil, like a
Beast of burden, pulling pallets,
Pushing carts. They have no
Ladders to ascend with packages
Upon their shoulders, so, when
They compose their verses, they
Are rested, keen of mind, but I
Am beaten, keen to sleep, too
Tired to appreciate the passing
Clouds, the parallels between
Such verses, Greek or Persian,
Chinese, Sanskrit, modern French,
And mine. I write in coarser
Fashion, true to how I live these
Days, but probably offensive to
The others of my ilk.
Poetry by Lawrence Beck
Read 23 times
Written on 2012-07-06 at 00:59
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Poetry with Sweat Stains
My love, these others of my ilk,Their lives are not at all as mine.
They loll in drawing rooms and
Copses, offices on campuses with
Windows beneath leafy trees.
They have the time to make their
Rhymes, and vigor, which I lack
These days. They do not rise
At three o'clock and toil, like a
Beast of burden, pulling pallets,
Pushing carts. They have no
Ladders to ascend with packages
Upon their shoulders, so, when
They compose their verses, they
Are rested, keen of mind, but I
Am beaten, keen to sleep, too
Tired to appreciate the passing
Clouds, the parallels between
Such verses, Greek or Persian,
Chinese, Sanskrit, modern French,
And mine. I write in coarser
Fashion, true to how I live these
Days, but probably offensive to
The others of my ilk.
Poetry by Lawrence Beck
Read 23 times
Written on 2012-07-06 at 00:59
Save as a bookmark (requires login) Write a comment (requires login) Send as email (requires login) Print text| Texts |
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