Branch of Gwydion & Fionn,
ash bay stallion
on the white wing of Branwen:
Architecture of griffin, lion, goat
as the clouds afloat,
that he must now wear at arms
pursuing the hounds on the hill
& ridden by the hag of the
Driven from the hearth by ambition
to seek fame
& fortune, unity & diversity,
as the furies, witches three, pursue relentlessly.
His conquest brings him no
from the world he's won & lost abandoned,
whilst at the hearth she is alone, forlorn & hated.
His cold will rot
beneath the gulls squall
he harsh with eight foot span
be beneath the bigger again.
Ready for the gone,
he could not claw the cat
on the vicars lawn
because birds of the air pecked him.
Thirty miles a day, on the loose,
he now awaits the falconers
across North Anglian plain
he skipped vicarage and chimney:
But is unlikely to attend the Champaign
sandwich of the vicarage fete.
Copyright Robin Ouzman Hislop. 2003
God is not a Poet
Listen you Son of a Bitch, Son of Man
of the Holy
Brotherhood, listen man,
what's the thing most frequently said
about poetry, that even the dullest dolt
got it, there's no money
in poetry and no money, no honey, honey.
And what is money? Information transacted
speed of light, the State, the Subject,
the Object and as even the dullest dolt
knows, moneys everything, Ipso Facto,
God is money, money is God, but not a poet,
in fact poetry doesn't exist, only money and
written in its name,
only dates, doesn't persist,
and why's that! think about it! God is not a poet.
Copyright Robin Ouzman Hislop 2002-10-12