Anne
in pace requiescat

Because she was plain
                     would confess herself
(mealy-mouthed) round
and lived alone (in the woods no less)
she was, of course, prone to mystical experience
When a stray rake flattened her nose
and broke her heart
she settled at once on becoming a poet 

Like her flesh, the months rolled
and with them pillowy armfuls of verse
about love, gardens, angels
          a hundred sundry poetical topics
She read them to local bards
                            roving aunties
whoever she could gather
in her great arms
For instance: 

The Sea Urchin 

Skipping, skipping
along the frothy shore,
the dainty-sweet cherub,
Christmas box in hand,
paused to greet the aged maiden
with locks of flowing, flowing,
flowering white hair,
white as steaming lilies
or Swithington’s Wort all abloom 

And every time, her guests dozed
woke with embarrassment
and making excuses
leaped out doors and windows
At last, she locked the poems
in an old trunk
dropped her head into her hands
waited for echo
wept till spring 

It was then, over breakfast pie
that she had a
famous mystical experience

 Before the fork touched crust
a fat worm poked out
and spoke
in a soft jelly tone 

Anne
Anne
Listen, Anne
I’ve been around
a hell of a long time, Anne
I’ve made kings of crackpots
gods out of brandy and water
I’ve chased yawns
mere gushes of air
caught them in tweed
ground them with briefcase ballast
and–lo!–had them taken for men
great ones at that
I’ll make a poet even of you
Just wait 

And so saying
he slinked back under crust
Anne smiled, ate the pie
licked the dish clean 

A year
and she was the most applauded
poet of her time
              could scarcely cross the street
without new honours
being pitched at her from various balconies
without the sighing literati
sweeping behind her like a silk train
(she invested in a sturdy helmet
and learned to walk rapidly) 

And so she came to speak
before thousands bespectacled
                            bejewelled
                            bemurmering
about free will and cheeses
in that great venue, the
Dead King’s Hall
She began with the celebrated
“Sea Urchin of Death” 

Skipping, skipping
along the frothy shore,
the dainty-sweet cherub,
Christmas box in hand,
paused to greet the aged maiden
with locks of flowing, flowing,
flowering white hair,
white as steaming lilies
or Swithington’s Wort all abloom–
and then worms crawled out of his mouth 

She paused for thunder
It came   
Next was the famous
“Covenant of Xantha” 

Skipping, skipping
along the frothy shore,
the dainty-sweet cherub,
Christmas box in hand,
paused to greet the aged maiden
with locks of flowing, flowing,
flowering white hair,
white as steaming lilies
or Swithington’s Wort all abloom–
and then his eyelids turned into moth wings and fluttered away. 

This was followed
(once the house had quieted down)
by the great favourite
“The Crucifixion of the Innocences” 

Skipping, skipping
along the frothing shore,
the dainty-sweet cherub,
Christmas box in hand,
paused to greet the aged maiden
with locks of flowing, flowing,
flowering white hair,
white as steaming lilies
or Swithington’s Wort all abloom–
and then he stuck his tongue out and there was pubic hair on it. 

(“Wait!” cried a man from the crowd
standing on his seat
But before he could speak
he was clubbed
            dragged from the building insensible)

 The poet bowed
as the public took to its feet
throwing roses
applauding in ecstasies 

After that, her already great repute
“bloomed” (as she would say)
and went on blooming
and blossoming and flowering
until it was quite a queen’s garden
by her death 

The day after the funeral
a frail young admirer
distraught and enterprising
stole into her crypt with crowbar and scissors
And opening the casket
was shocked to see
only clean white bones
and
writhing among the ribs
a great fat worm
Upraising its head
the thing spoke to him
in a soft jelly tone 

Geoffrey
Geoffrey
Listen, Geoffrey
I’ve been around
a hell of a long time, Geoffrey
Listen ...