Friday, May 05, 2006

the english thinker

he's on the garden chair
hands clasped, brooding
with pear-drop breasts
dandelions buttering
the unmown grass

1 comment:

Bruce Hodder said...

Yes,he's right,there's always some kind of beautiful music in the best poetry, even if it's the mental music created by the unusual viewpoint, or the bell-ring of truth (however ugly). And the best poets are always the screwed-up ones. The embittered, the sad, the lost, the terminally confused.
Glad you liked the poem, by the way.