The Thames runs, bones rattle, rats creep,
weeks of street cafes yawn by
when at last! the People are all rejoicing in the liberated zone.
But all of them go with their feet tied.
It is not a cathouse of the rising.
Wendy Cope / Waste Land Limericks
Sibyl James / The White Junk of Love, Again, translitic 8 (after Louise Labé,
Bob Holman / Maizie’s Revolution
Roberto Juarroz / Second Vertical Poetry, poem 21 (trans. W. S. Merwin)
d. a. levy / Cleveland Undercovers, canto V
So the People come on little cat feet? Hmm...ReplyDelete
Could be. If so, they must curl once about the house, and fall asleep.ReplyDelete