Mick Harper
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In: London
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| Tea At The Palaz Of Hoon by Wallace Stevens |
It's like a garden party at Buck House but with more houris circulating with the egg-and-cress sandwiches.
Not less because in purple I descended
The western day through what you called
The loneliest air, not less was I myself. |
Ozzie Mandis, is it?
What was the ointment sprinkled on my beard?
What were the hymns that buzzed beside my ears?
What was the sea whose tide swept through me there? |
A bit of self treatment, then he went to the doctor's, who said there's a lot of it about and gave him something to get him out of the surgery.
Out of my mind the golden ointment rained,
And my ears made the blowing hymns they heard.
I was myself the compass of that sea: |
The pharmacist misread the scrip.
I was the world in which I walked, and what I saw
Or heard or felt came not but from myself;
And there I found myself more truly and more strange. |
It's old age, Oz, take my word for it. Still, I wouldn't mind a bit if you've got some spare going.
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