Scene
from the French of Charles Baudelaire
Blithely to draft these scribbles I need to lie,
like the astologers, in an attic next the sky
where, high among church spires, I can dream and hear
their grave hymns wind-blown to my ivory tower.
Chin in hand, up here in my apartment block,
I can see workshops full of noise and talk,
cranes and masts of the ocean-going city,
vast clouds-lit photographs of eternity.
I watch a foggy star open and shine
in the azure sky, a lamp at a windowpane,
smoke rising into the firmament like incense,
the moon dispensing its mysterious influence.
I watch for spring and summer, autumn too;
and when the winter comes, with silent snow,
I shut the shutters and close the curtains tight
to build my faerie palaces in the night
and think of love and gardens, blue resorts,
white fountains splashing into marble courts,
birds chirping day and night, whatever notion
tickles the infantile imagination…
Rattling the window with its hoarse burlesque
no mob distracts me from my writing desk;
for here I am, up to my usual tricks -
evoking sunlight as my whims require,
my thoughts blazing for want of a real fire.
Derek Mahon
FRIENDLY ADVICE TO A LOT OF YOUNG MEN
Go to Tibet
Ride a camel.
Read the bible.
Dye your shoes blue.
Grow a beard.
Circle the world in a paper canoe.
Subscribe to The Saturday Evening Post.
Chew on the left side of your mouth only.
Marry a woman with one leg and shave with a straight razor.
And carve your name in her arm.Brush your teeth with gasoline.
Sleep all day and climb trees at night.
Be a monk and drink buckshot and beer.
Hold your head under water and play the violin.
Do a belly dance before pink candles.
Kill your dog.
Run for mayor.
Live in a barrel.
Break your head with a hatchet.
Plant tulips in the rain.But don’t write poetry.
