Undelivered

From goth cathedrals voices rise

Nine graven ladies preach

The happy news that mermaids fair

Are singing each to each.

Don’t shout at T S Elliot

He will not hear your sound

And no one ever leaves this place

But god and Ezra Pound.

Each suitor needs an editor

For words they think quite fine

And just as Johnson wisely said

To strike out every line.

I think Dirac said physics strives

To be concise and terse

Say clearly what was never known

And poems just the reverse

There is some ambiguity

In what he understands

A heart made glad by his estate

Or by Fra Pandolf’s hands.

A kook announced to Bonaparte

His plot as they went ridin’

The Consul said you should have found

Some other to confide in.

My postcards sent without address

Could not have found their way

But still exist, I like to think

And will arrive someday.