Yeats' Tower Hill (almost)


The long year closes on snowfall,
finally.  Over the ridge
to the Witch’s Hat, a ledge
over Arthur Ave. (#33 - les

jeux sont faits, John Berryman).
My father’s flinty ashes
by the creek, that washes
through my mother’s thoughts.  A man,

c’est tout.  Her lacquered plate
of autumn gold (Yeats’
Tower Hill, almost)
shines for the poet now, like fate.

A circle, fiery wheel of light...
Apollo’s chariot,
or Noah’s boat... a plot
of Plotinus, from cloudy height

of thunderherd – heart-mirth
of chuckling Apollinaire
(his swaddled head a pear
donated to interstellar 4th

or 14th (Q) Juillet).  The pattern
gold, shot through by fencing
needles, under the glancing
plectrum of wind-beaten mast.  Stern

heights & forthright gunnel-curves
of one gaunt ghost-ship
surging through the deep –
one orange alba-ange flares (swerves).



TC said...

Henry, this is quite lovely, the unfurling of a new and better banner for a Union that may exist in dream or memory but perhaps ne'er was on land nor sea.

JB had the wrong name for this kind of work -- not his own.

Surely you know this film -- ?

Orthographic Distinctions, from Henry Fool

Good to maintain the distinctions...

Henry Gould said...

Thank you very much, Tom. I haven't seen Henry Fool, though certainly identified with the title - will look for it now!