Friday 1 February 2013

Most of Komrij's poems feel like sonnets - this one is one


A youth of shammy cloths and bacon rind,
Of vegetating with hydraulic jacks,
No understanding skill of any kind
And all that fuss about death at his back.

A middle age where he just feels constricted
By job careerists who display disdain,
While a pinched leering wife’s on him inflicted
And he just longs for summer nights, in vain.

During his final years his drunken spouse
Picks on his dentures and his gammy bowels.
She blows her top. She’s always on the moan.

A gallant noose comes gently floating past.
He puts his head inside it and, at last,
Three seconds of pure joy – the first he’s known.

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