November’s poem
… is called “Sapphics.”
Bar Mr. Hargreaves.
Grocers a-tremble bash their brassy scales down, / Careless of weight and hacking cheese regardless; / Postmen shoot letters in the nearest ashcan, /
Dogs dance in circles.
Leaving their meters, gas inspectors gallop, / Water Board men cease cutting off the water; / Florists are strewing inexpensive posies /
In Beauty’s pathway.
“O cruel fair!” groan butchers at their chopping, / “Vive la belle Hargreaves!” howls a pallid milkman; / Even the Vicar shades his eyes and mutters: /
“O dea certe.”
Back to “Balmoral” trips the goddess lightly; / Night comes at length, and Mr. Hargreaves with it, / Casting his bowler glumly on the sideboard: /
“Gimme my dinner.”
(D.B. Wyndham Lewis)
⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯
Exquisite torment, dainty Mrs. Hargreaves / Trips down the High Street, slaying hearts a-plenty; / Stricken and doomed are all who meet her eye-shots! /Bar Mr. Hargreaves.
Grocers a-tremble bash their brassy scales down, / Careless of weight and hacking cheese regardless; / Postmen shoot letters in the nearest ashcan, /
Dogs dance in circles.
Leaving their meters, gas inspectors gallop, / Water Board men cease cutting off the water; / Florists are strewing inexpensive posies /
In Beauty’s pathway.
“O cruel fair!” groan butchers at their chopping, / “Vive la belle Hargreaves!” howls a pallid milkman; / Even the Vicar shades his eyes and mutters: /
“O dea certe.”
Back to “Balmoral” trips the goddess lightly; / Night comes at length, and Mr. Hargreaves with it, / Casting his bowler glumly on the sideboard: /
“Gimme my dinner.”
⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯
(D.B. Wyndham Lewis)