Poets at Home

Yoo-hoo! This way, dear reader, I so hoped
You’d find us. We have neither Sward
   nor Bowers
Nor imaginary Gardons, yet a peasant Plath
Wilburing you through Ciardi perennials of many
Hughes to our—hardly a Villa, more a
   Warren.
For fine old Holmes you’ll have to look elsewhere.
The unfrocked Bishop next door used to call
Our Boganvillea’d turrets “frozen music’s
Swensong“—which was Garrigue to me,
   Kumin.
Tsk! Watch your head. Here in the simple
   Hall
Is an engraving of the Blynded Simpson,
Next to a holograph page of “Shapiro
   Lunaire.”
Reflected in the mirror’s a door marked
T. ELIOT—that’s where we got our training.
You’ve not Eaton? Can you Sitwell in this Booth?
We’ve nothing out of the Audenary—no
   Weiners, no Koch.
One Combs the shops for a Pound of
   Hamburger
In a paper Bagg. Have some, it’s on the
   Howes.
Now for our tête-à-Tate. Yes, we’re all here.
Tomlinson? Ginsberg? Meredith? Great
   Scott,
How names like that Kinsella line beats me.
Why, any Lehmann will tell you—Beg your pardon?
Miles is as good as Amis? Ha, that’s
   Rich!
Oops! Butterfingers! Should have tucked in a Dickey
Or two. Come upstairs while I change. This view
Is of the Moore where only Heath-Stubba
   grow.
It’s full of Graves. Here, Raine or shine, the Sexton
Succumbs to Skully Fitts. Here, Larkin-
   spired,
Hard by an upturned Baro—no, a Wain
(Where are you, Wagoner? Absent? There’s no Justice!)—
Dwell the Moss-gatherer and the Berry-
   man.
That shallow, Merrilly chattering stream, where bends
The unthinking, Reid and bobs the Corke,
   flows seaward.
Yon far out speck will be the Hollander
   sailing
Under a curse…What, leaving? Not so soon!
Do stay. Don’t jump the Gunn. We’ll
   Lowell about
And—You smell something Brinnin?
   Well, bye-bye.
Please Wright—I’ll just lie down with a wet Pack.