Lawrence Durrell

Come, meet me in some dead café —
A puff of cognac or a sip of smoke
Will grant a more prolific light,
Say there is nothing to revoke.

A veteran with no arm will press
A phantom sorrow in his sleeve;
The aching stump may well insist
On memories it can't relieve.

Late cats, the city's thumbscrews twist.
Night falls in its profuse derision,
Brings candle-power to younger lives,
Cancels in me the primal vision.

Come, random with me in the rain,
In ghastly harness like a dream,
In rainwashed streets of saddened dark
Where nothing moves that does not seem.

@темы: 20, d, durrell, lawrence, english-british

2017-06-15 в 17:01 

robert ross
tomorrow's been cancelled owing to lack of interest.
все им написанное обладает силой телетраспортера ))

2017-06-16 в 08:17 

robert ross, those long rambling poems he called letters (с))

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Pure Poetry