That Which I Would

Well, this poem is simple enough. In the ninth stanza "the Tarsan" is, of course, St Paul. There is a simple pattern of alternating feminine and masculine line endings throughout the poem.

   For something similar but different here's a link to "An Ending" which I wrote in trochaic tetrameters in December 1980 and posted on 7 November 2012.

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(Romans 7, 15-25, Douay-Rheims)

That which I would, I do not,
That which I would not, do;
And so I’ll dance to Hades
If it’s all the same to you.

St Paul knew all the struggle,
The sting which grouched his side,
But back-flayed at the pillar,
Or sunk in the sea’s wide tide,

He held to the unseen knowledge
Which unsat him on the road,
And like a stubborn palmer
Strove to the unmoved Node.

But I, and you! like clubbers
Sway to the swing of the groove;
Ecstatic, the sound deck’s pounding
Propels our every move:

Shouting, laughing, lusting,
We hog the floor on speed,
Faces and loins are sweat-soaked
Like metaphors for greed.

Ha! chastity you flat-foot,
I’ll game whoever I choose:
Lying, fawning – well-practised! –
Are tools for those on the cruise.

Be perfect, One said, like your Father,
He who sees all, and will judge,
Though pre-1960s fancies
Are but a social misfit’s grudge.

And here’s a jug of Jack Daniel’s,
Some “kick of a mule” pills,
There’s porn on my iphone in plenty,
All’s pluses, no nils!

Yes, I know about all the sorrow
Caverning the world’s face,
But hand-wringing like the Tarsan’s
Is not a social grace.

And as for the globes now spinning
Above our strobe-lit heads,
Relax, they’re safely hanging
By Damoclean threads!

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© April 2023

A Detestable Habit

The streets mentioned in this poem are the five main thoroughfares in Penzance - the granite Lyonesse of the west. Apart from the rhyme scheme the stanzas are patterned by alternating feminine and masculine line endings.

   For comparison here is a link to "The Lilies of the Valley," a ballad which I wrote in 1979 and posted on this blog on 1 March 2012. Incidentally, King Solomon's Mines remains a tremendous read - and to hell with political correctness.

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“...as I grow older I regret to say that a detestable habit of thinking seems to be getting a hold of me...” (Allan Quatermain in King Solomon’s Mines by H. Rider Haggard).

As I walked on the prom in the morning
Nodding to him and to her,
And the shopkeeper pulled out his awning,
Market Jew Street beginning to stir,
A sudden great horror enwhelmed me,
Cold as a wave of the sea,
   For a detestable habit of thinking
   Bounces me on its knee.

As if struck I froze in an anguish –
Ah, Sartre, Huysmans, de Sade! –
And Chapel Street started to languish
At the sun’s curdled aubade,
For life’s but an ill-willed hormone,
It starts, it’s lived, it’s flown,
   And a detestable habit of thinking
   Pierces me to the bone.

Futility and sadness
Torment even the little child,
In Causewayhead there’s madness
As the dead limp single-filed,
And tonight the moon will perish,
Throttled in its own wish,
   Oh a detestable habit of thinking
   Dangles me like a fish.

Well, the wind upon the mountains,
Like Life, will ever ring,
And words like spray from fountains
Through Bread Street will hiss and sting,
But the one unique loved other
Will die though balmed with myrrh,
   And this detestable habit of thinking
   Thrashes me like a cur.

Is the All but an absurd cipher,
A French farce that laughs to weep?
Does Sisyphus, the eternal lifer,
In Alverton Street beg for sleep?
Oh, I long to be a bourgeois,
Small-minded, safe below par,
   For this detestable habit of thinking
   Must mend but only to mar.

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© April 2023