Something Nice
by Tony Thomas.
If only I could write something nice, about
A wedding maybe, or a far country
Where birds never sing out of tune
and ladies,
No doubt, always have a perfect afternoon.
Should I scrape away the vile impasto
That clogs the Pierian Spring of tears?
And reveal a sentimental pentimento
Peeping through the stain of hidden fears.
I should try to write something Audenary,
Not dismal cantos ranting from the past,
Or loud barking from the canaille pound
that
Sounds a lot like Eliot, but less profound.
What subjects then remain unblest
By the mordant wit of the satirist?
Religion may restrain the waving fist,
And soothe the poet’s savage breast.
Maybe the gentle tread of saviour’s feet,
The soft light of the world’s waning moon,
Long preserved by Mary’s waxing swoon,
Unblemished thanks to Magi’s soothing Veet,
Ay, there’s the rub that longs to burn and
prick,
The awful wedge that goes from thin to thick,
The urge to carp at pimps like Holman Hunt,
Who rarely painted ladies from the front.
A pitiful glance from a child’s eye by Greuze,
May make your mask of tragedy heureuse,
A reaction thought inappropriate
By those dedicated to the happy state.
Gilding lilies with a lot of varnish
Will be sure to ripen Harold’s Bloom,
But will quicksilver’s wit remove the tarnish
From the sentimental poet’s tomb?
Be bold! Don’t go gentle into the light,
Try harder to avoid the critic’s ardour,
Keep your Francis Bacon in the larder,
And your bacon-slicer out of sight.
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