Poem: Francis Poulenc
FRANCIS POULENC
For years in and out of the streets,
Among the bitches of the day,
Christ-like....
Mirror-holding guttersnipes, most
Of us flirted with faith
As if
The world yoyoed only on turns of
State and our jazzy jokes.
Gradually
Everyone drifted apart to find
Their own respectability
And realm.
For me, Ferroud's death in Hungary
Proved to be a turning point.
Fanfare
Gave way to litanies, motets, and
Tortured dialogues out on
The far edges
Of the monastery mind, but I still
Shuttled between the music
Of the street
And the sanity of dogma. More than
Milhaud or Honegger,
I grew old
A young man still, a throwback,
Derivative, tracing personal
Origins.
Who is to say what flows on with
The times and what remains
Behind?
Before I die, a couple of sonatas
Must stacatto
Down
The years, reaching even before I
Was alive -- I do this to bury
Myself.
(from In Sight of Chaos, 1971, Turret Books, London)
