HICKLING
As Hickling opened out, he took his place
Upon the prow, theatrically, and coughed,
Dramatically, before, full in the face
of growing autumn rain, he held aloft
His trumpet, sounded out an old refrain
As fine as ever heard throughout the Broad.
He knew we watched and smiled “aah, this again”,
But still, as much, we knew, played for his Lord.
That week, I first lost all my heart to Cohen
And Buckley, roar and whisper, back and forth
via Gods and lovers longed for yet unknown,
and forged a sermon for my journey north.
And yet, when I retrace, surpassing all,
The slow post in the rain’s what I recall.
RAWA MAZOWIECKA
The evening of my 31st birthday
(In truth one could choose any birthday here),
By water, any water, but let’s say
It’s Polish water, with a Polish beer.
In truth it could be any beer so cold
It dims the sun (it could be any sun),
With lively conversation to unfold,
(In truth it could be held with anyone).
I checked my notes:- this here’s the life that’s good
It could be any life but this one’s mine,
It’s not unique, that’s known and understood,
It’s simple, universal, and that’s fine.
A bar, a Polish shack, a summer night,
I shut my mind down and I saw a light.
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