Tom Raworth: July 19, 1938 - February 8, 2017
Poem For Hipsters
(for Tom Raworth)
email corrodes my soul
coat unbuttoned
nerves shot late morning
the same blue sky
before & after
symbolic as traffic clears
& the light fails & trails
under the badge of Love
the label of enchantment
speak to the Dead
not like Rilke
not likely like Rilke
but on the point of no return
pin on fun
shift & change down to the churning pool of Hades
to flush away the terrible night
a residue of ghosts
when those are poems finished as a ransom note
lodged somewhere between
the Baroque & the Sublime
I’ll rewrite the lot
with night conversations
when the rest are grey
my enthusiasm runs ahead of me
a new poem dashed off
when the rest of the pack is cold
demotivated
won’t play
frees my account with an up-to-date pin
more tired with ruined sight
caught in some vortex
of healthy rivalry spun round & up
he drove me nuts & out of Hope
we mourn our dead over the horizon
nowhere safe for sure
through the material world of blood ink paper
a creased postcard
buckle & dip
slipped away
ah one whose number I don’t have
out of control
trying to call
(for Tom Raworth)
email corrodes my soul
coat unbuttoned
nerves shot late morning
the same blue sky
before & after
symbolic as traffic clears
& the light fails & trails
under the badge of Love
the label of enchantment
speak to the Dead
not like Rilke
not likely like Rilke
but on the point of no return
pin on fun
shift & change down to the churning pool of Hades
to flush away the terrible night
a residue of ghosts
when those are poems finished as a ransom note
lodged somewhere between
the Baroque & the Sublime
I’ll rewrite the lot
with night conversations
when the rest are grey
my enthusiasm runs ahead of me
a new poem dashed off
when the rest of the pack is cold
demotivated
won’t play
frees my account with an up-to-date pin
more tired with ruined sight
caught in some vortex
of healthy rivalry spun round & up
he drove me nuts & out of Hope
we mourn our dead over the horizon
nowhere safe for sure
through the material world of blood ink paper
a creased postcard
buckle & dip
slipped away
ah one whose number I don’t have
out of control
trying to call
Simon Smith