“O for a draught of vintage…”
All art is either parody or homage,
And the best, a mixture.
You cannot expect me to put the paint on that way,
Although that style has become a fixture.
You can’t expect me to go down this hall,
Saying hello to every hat upon the wall.
There’s Wordsworth’s; his frequent use of enjambment
Was mocked by John Clare—no, that wasn’t the younger poet’s intent;
Rivals of the same era will sometimes seem
Completely alike; in time, the same dream
Descends on both; he praised her,
But by doing so, his verse steered towards the small
And trivial. If only you had read it to the end!
You would have seen your own sleeve repaired. You lend
Me a part of myself—but I always take
It as mine forever. Well, that’s how it works, for God’s sake.
The economy can tax and buy and re-sell
To the poor, and this is why they never do well.
Everything is made for the sake
Of the advantaged. The rest is hidden in the lake.
There’s nothing original. We re-combine
The letters, the hues, the ideas. Look at this line:
This line (not that one, this one) is going to tell
A heavenly tale, using blotches found in hell.
Or Hull. When Lake Poets took a long hike
Along German hills, exquisite poetry was found.
Clare mocking Wordsworth is almost like
Larkin, who replenished with a certain sound
An irritated Englishness, too quick
To cry for most, but bitching certainly did the trick.
You can see him, right there, and think
Anything you want about him. Go have a drink.