Divertissement

I.
gay, heady fete
if I left it now
no one would really miss me (tough!)
Offenbach's ghost
conducts the orchestra;
he winks merrily
and champagne corks fly.

II.
I trailed her
down to Marsailles
only when I got there
I found out she
went back to Calais,
took a boat to Dover
and so left me
and her pain behind.

                                                                                                                   III.
                                                                                               if there are any
                                                                                              new rainy night
                                                                                                     road songs
                                                                          come out of the everywhere
                                                                                           then I haven't yet
                                                                                                     heard them
                                                                                             because I'm still
                                                                                       very much attached
                                                                                             to Hornsby's '86.
                                                                                                                 still
                                                                                       there's always Milla.       
                                                  
                                                                                                                   IV.
                                                                                         many of my poems
                                                                                                   are all rather
                                                                                                      simply writ,
                                                                                           wouldn't you say?
                                                                                         I disdain profundity.
                                                                 
 

DB/c1997.2017








                                                                              
                                                 

O Lay Ye Down, My Lady

O lay ye down,
 My lady
Wi' your heart
 So poison'd sore,
Your true love's
 Hied away
For guerdon
 In that war.

For glory and
 For vict'ry,
To steal and
 To ravage,
To remind all
 Gent'l-women
Men can oft
 Be savage.

O, he ought now
 Present be
And you both
 Could retire,
Knit corse to corse
 Like arras threads,
Union'd abed
 With loins afire.

There your bed,
 There your couch,
Choose as fits
 Your pleasure,
To lie and keen
 And await news
Of the valiance
 Of your treasure.

I can be kind
 And just to men
When they're oft not
 Like such fools
And forego their
 Own proclivity
For power, land
 And jewels.

But here! A herald
 Gasping comes,
Surely wi'
 The Golden Tale
Of your true love's
 Wond'rous bravery
That ne'er was
 Wont to fail.

Ah! good Sir,
 Say not true,
For your news be
 scalding curt
Of the young man
 Fall'n in battle
And at present
 Grievous hurt.

Now comes another
 Such like you,
A-pant for
 Want of breath.
Ah, curse this war,
 O my poor lady,
It hath seen to
 Your swain's death!

O what avail
 These tears of mine,
With thine
 All seas are fill'd?
But I see now
 Thro' ghostly blur
You lie so...
  Still'd.

Ah!...so I see,
 O my poor lady
That you've fall'n not
 In a swound,
But shall soon clasp
 Your own true love
In the chill,
 Uncivil ground.



DB/4.2017