Pen And Ink

If all the world were pen and ink
And all the folk were sorrow,
If all the trees were burly breeze
And Wednesdays, come tomorrow,
If all the stars were out of sight
And snow fell softly overnight,
If all we woke to morning white
Who’d lantern light the morrow?

If all the earth were beaten gold
And all the fields were fallow,
If all the bees were try-to-please
And all the mud marshmallow,
If all the children walked away
To never change from day to day
But gambolled in the autumn hay,
Who’d taper light the tallow?

29 November 1972

poem by David Lewis Paget
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High.

I’ve no use
For your snow or your grass,
Your horse or your hash
Or your stone type trash;
I can get high
On the breeze and the sky,
The storm passing by
And the lightning flash.

I’ve no time
For your joint or your weed,
Your smack, or the creed
Of the junk you need;
I can get stoned
On a beech or a rowan,
A sail headed home
Or a sunflower seed..

Life’s too short
For your H and your coke,

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poem by David Lewis Paget
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One Word Swallowed

Ah! … Ah! … What is Man?
The sad slick-sliver of the long quicksand,
The flash-burst crackle of the lightning, forking
Or two young daughters of the evening, talking.

Lord! … Lord! … What is pain?
The short sharp splinters of the mad March rain,
The last lost touch of any man’s need, needing
Or one word swallowed as the other word’s leaving.

Girl! … Girl! … What is love?
The daydream dreaming at the first faint flush,
The cool kiss sipping at the breath, fresh-tasting
Or black sheets buried in your bared limbs, waiting?

28 February 1975

poem by David Lewis Paget
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The Telegram

Darling girl, will you love me now
That I’ve left you far behind me,
I took the plane in the driving rain
And I doubt that you could find me,
I left the part of my heart behind
That all my love was laid in,
And found that all of my life with you
Was the part I should have stayed in.

Mistress mine, will you miss the touch
Of a man whose miss is touching
The silken skin of a mistress sin
Whose sin was trust in trusting.
Be still, be sure of your faith in one
Who knows your own sweet sorrow,
And watch for me in the sky tonight
For I may be home tomorrow.

9 July 1974

poem by David Lewis Paget
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On the Raising of the Mary Rose

'Long since I sailed me
I and ‘Great Harry’
Pride of the ragged fleet
When we were merrie,
Heel at the wind, my tars,
Gunports at ready.'

'There sat the Frenchman
Here, our great ships,
Hard on the helm we are
As the port dips,
Long cries of ‘Mary Rose’
Die on their lips.'

'Deep-dredged these centuries
Now wedged on high
Stark, as my timbers
Wide-arc the sky;
Where now ‘Great Harry’,
Where does he lie? '

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poem by David Lewis Paget
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Stalemate

I have no words, nor patterns left
To spill, my dear,
No facile quotes, no wisdom
To dispense,
Nor any careless answers at
My time of year
All that was lost, or sold,
Or buried, spent.

All gone; the well is dry, the depths
I tried to reach
Devoured me long before
I found you there,
I lent with empty gestures
What I thought to teach,
And questioned truth, if even truth
Could care.

So what is left; a feeling we
May not express,

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poem by David Lewis Paget
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Mother Of Sons

The great themes are ended,
Too well and soon,
Not one I mended me
All in my afternoon.

I lay once conjured
In love where she lay,
All thoughts of causes then
Slipped them away.

Crabgrass and thistletop
Is all I have left me;
Not so, she comes now,
My woman, she mends me.

Faithful, she steals from
The web of my weavings,
Back-lit at dusklight
She picks at my leavings.

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poem by David Lewis Paget
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One Lonely Night

I thought to write of love;
And did, until the critics tracked me down,
To warn me of the blackout in the town...
No lights above.

No lights above, no voices raised in praise,
No worth in words, no thought for life or love,
But scarecrows that will turn away the birds...
On silent days.

And love then wheeled about,
To threaten of some dull monopoly
To halt my pen and stall my mastery,
And turn me out.

There’s little love to write;
Distemper is endemic in the race,
And jaundice is a peril of the eye,
To leave us stare at some receding face...
One lonely night.

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poem by David Lewis Paget
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Scrawled Silence

Too often in this gaping land
I’ve wandered helpless, like some man
Whose art was squandered in the drought,
Bereft within, burnt dry without
Both parched and strangled, word and deed
Cast out from hope, embraced by need
Exiled from all that beauty saw
And lost to all I knew before.

Small wonder, then, that nature’s call
Excites me less or not at all,
That harsh intrigues of leaflessness
And trees grotesque intrigue me less.
This brown and barren artistry
Calls forth some emptiness in me
To whisper all that sadness seems
And leave scrawled silence in sad dreams.

7 September 1976

poem by David Lewis Paget
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Before We Part

And you, my father
Who cast my light
In the dim mists
At my mother’s art –
The road narrows,
The pace speeds
And you may fall
Before we part.

Your threescore years
And ten are run,
And you must weary
At each stile
For somewhere soon
The stranger waits
In the long shades
By the dark mile.

And he will beckon
You with him

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poem by David Lewis Paget
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