Thursday, February 17, 2022

Dangerous Essential Light

Poet in his atelier, past midnight

writes at his desk by lamplight

sufficient to navigate a boat

on the Thames, its cargo of freight.

Commerce supplied by Art and its light.


At St. Ives, Cornwall we rent a car.

Stick shift, stay on the left, mind the curb,

road as narrow as equestrian trail.

Peggy's destination: Land’s End

where D.H. Lawrence and Freida lived, 1915.

He wrote by his lamp. Obscene,

said Scotland Yard and furthermore

he, with his German wife, must be spies

sending signals to German subs.


It was that dangerous lamp

sent them off to Taos

to write by New Mexico light

desert sun and apostrophes of moon

produced diaphanous sentences

lit from behind to illuminate his words.

He wrote of lovers in naked passion

Reborn in naked grace.

His words and paintings showed more flesh

than English ears and eyes

could allow for high tea.


Let’s blame this dangerous incandescence

on much-traveled Lucifer, light-bearer, Yes,

that Lucifer, once son of dawn who fell

from grace the way lightning falls

to a Satanic underworld. Devilish light!

We never made it to Land’s End. Another car came at me and I yielded allowing him to pass but ours now stuck on top of a boulder. The driver with his two teenage boys came back. The four of us lifted our car returning it to the so-called road. Light was fading. I’d had enough. Not at all what Lawrence would have done.










  1. Well maybe Lawrence wouldn’t have turned around but you made the right decision.🙃