What I find serious
is losing ground: it’s the plaintive voice
of the singer on my old stereo;
the book of Michelangelo’s poems
bought at a garage sale for a dollar
which still has its dust jacket
and a name in linked writing
above the frontispiece.
It’s easy enough to find these things
if you enter into the search, not like
when Schliemann set out for Troy
with a copy of the Iliad in his trunk
and only a rough idea where to dig
aaaaaaa―but would anyone care now
if you bragged of finding a necklace
once worn by a girl called Helen?
For so long I thought I was in time,
and now so completely out of it
I’m tempted to find a pirate shirt
and loll about on hard benches
smoking opium from a wooden pipe
which seems a better option
than wearing my pants low
or posting photos of myself smiling
never did that; the fashion then
was for sonnets, which he wrote
when he wasn’t working, when he was
a little melancholy, unsure if he was loved
and the world’s creeping indifference
something he was struggling with.
copyright Vaughan Gunson. Posted with permission from the author.
Thank you, Vaughan Gunson, for sharing with the Tuesday Poem series. I’ve posted a few of Vaughan’s poems here before, like back in April when I included one of his poems on the occasion of my husband’s birthday. Vaughan does not write the kind of love poems you’d expect. Go on, take a look.
More about the poet:
Tuesday Poem is a collective of poets who share poetry on a weekly basis across borders and time zones. At the TP hub this week you’ll find “Johnny” by John O’Connor, posted by TP editor this week, NZ poet Tim Jones.
For more Tuesday Poems, go here.