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.
Well maybe Lawrence wouldn’t have turned around but you made the right decision.🙃
ReplyDeleteAs I recall Peggy and Lawrence agreed.
ReplyDelete