macgregor card: duties of an english foreign secretary





Moon, refrigerate the weeping child

and guard his stony brook.

There is no thing between the woods

like music of the band

and I’ve got friends in London, no I’ve

got friends in London,

lawyer in their hearth or billion starry heath

in the language of mine

that they laugh at

delphiniums rev up the fire,

really look at them go

lead into the throat

a snowfield gas,

a Crimean slogan,

in England or in sum,

no papers go off bang to pad the fog.


My nation bears repeating and adores

the maudit hermit rising without name into gorgeous claimant lumber.

Here’s your forest,

visitor—soft psssst of the oar—

will you hear a bird parlando

necking at your door.

That duck will float

should it be born.

My face from off its neck is torn.

I owe so much, I have no thing,

the rest I’ll leave the poor.

I’ve seen the truth, I have my mind

I have to have that telephone,

it fit in the hand a billion times over

and that’s not all,

that’s everything.

Compare this to the British isles

what I cannot describe

what I saw—

Prospero wailed on Ariel

and Ariel wailed,

“What a boom year for material!”


By the way,

all this takes place

on my lawn,

it has nothing to do with love

it is perfunctory

it is the end of the year

it is your idea and I want more of it.

Wrap my bonny hood in every paper

on the rack and please to have

a horse to cart

the grocery off my back,

now it’s got late and I will go and will be back.


In the forest some hear winds adjust

a funny tuft of weed,

where is that song or stiffly-collared child

beating on a pot, but in the forest I do not,

I only hear my friends are sawing in the fog.

Some hear their mouth in front

of that but face perform

the words “light company at four”

and a “mall to leaf through eye-correction

literature at eight” and couldn’t that be great

I’d even trade it for a song and some hear beasts

perform an even-tempered chorus,

I only hear those friends

are sawing in the fog.


I found myself in a wood of chairs

the birds were thin as wires,

when information fails, light falls,

the office clock to airy thinness beat.

Is it not gold to have been cheek

in front of that but guilt to bear,

take that, I live the life for the dog you eat,

youth to fortune

instrument you are

prohibitive and lying sack of wood,

I want to walk a line

I want to play my dove

in a magic show about John Donne

but everybody does,

but everybody does

steal all the gold and silver

fall down stabbed, light a pity candle

then get up again and quote,

“I go to sleep and then get up again.”


Moon, refrigerate the sitting child

and guard his stony brook.

There is no thing between the woods

like music of the band,

and I’ve got friends in London, no I’ve

got friends in London.

None of my friends reads poesie.

All around them was trees.

These friends called me sir.

I have said things I would love

to have been true, but thought

and act are crammed with chairs,

soft visitor sit down, and then?