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Dave Bonta
every word broken
among the fine ladies
old coxcomb
I was the same plain man
with a king’s head
ordinary as meat
at a cook’s house
but my lady would not suffer me to go
into the garden
in her hand one orange
for my feast
Ice and snow
go into a tavern—
people demand them.
I kiss a lady on a card
and talk with a whistle.
This is
the way
to my lady’s bed:
a pasty full
of fat, the moon
in my hands.
I walk alone
seeing the fine ladies there
humming to myself
I fear I am dead
under my clothes
A fine lip the bottle had—
my lady
and her good night.
my hands all morning meet
to put things in order
grow fat with content
and love a falling out
like the lord and lady
of a nothing little town
Here lies a most beautiful lady,
Light of step and heart was she;
I think she was the most beautiful lady
That ever was in the West Country.
But beauty vanishes; beauty passes;
However rare--rare it be;
And when I crumble, who will remember
This lady of the West Country?
You who flutter and quiver
An instant
Just beyond my apprehension;
Lady,
I will find the white orchid for you,
If you will but give me
One smile between those wayward drifts of hair.
I will break the wild berries that loop themselves over the marsh-pool,
For your sake,
And the long green canes that swish against each other,
I will break, to set in your hands.
For there is no wonder like to you,
You who flutter and quiver
An instant
Just beyond my apprehension.
You are beautiful and faded
Like an old opera tune
Played upon a harpsichord;
Or like the sun-flooded silks
Of an eighteenth-century boudoir.
In your eyes
Smoulder the fallen roses of out-lived minutes,
And the perfume of your soul
Is vague and suffusing,
With the pungence of sealed spice-jars.
Your half-tones delight me,
And I grow mad with gazing
At your blent colours.
My vigour is a new-minted penny,
Which I cast at your feet.
Gather it up from the dust,