54. On the death of that most excellent lady
© 1 December 2017


(The form chosen for this week is the cento. The lines "stolen" (and sometimes with a word or punctuation changed) are the poets: Nitin - a poet-blogger, Robbie Burns, Thomas Hardy, Gerard Manley Hopkins, Samuel Taylor Coleridge, T.S. Eliot, William Shakespeare, and William Blake.)



She flips through the men
in her life, like the pages of a fashion magazine.
Wee, sleeket, cowran, tim’rous beastie,
O, what a panic’s in my breastie!
She loves not me,
And love alone can lend her loyalty;
My heart in hiding
Stirred for a bird.
I do not think that she will sing to me.
Come, come thou bleak December wind,
And blow the dry leaves from the tree!
When I am formulated, sprawling on a pin,
When I am pinned and wriggling on the wall
Is this a dagger which I see before me,
The handle toward my hand? Come, let me clutch thee.
And in the morning glad I see
My love outstretched beneath the tree.





Contact Author
Back to Poetry Listings
Next Poem
Previous Poem