Kenneth Allott(29 August 1912 - 1973 / Glamorganshire/ South Wales)
- by Kenneth Allott45
I take you looking at the statue the smile is yours and the stone is you the stone is simple and the smile is playful the smile is stolen and the stone is fallen I ask you to stand and smile like that until thinking you stone, time has forgotten you. They say but really I forget
however picturesque however figurative whether so often and so quizzical whoever it was crying in another voice ... Let us sit like tailors. At least 1 am sure of this: man or woman or beast I recall no face.
The night is kind so please to bend your arm hide your head in the hollow of your arm nobody will take you unawares, nobody and nobody will take you unprepared for time it is now to step out of time and sleep will come as easy as kiss my hand and you will find sleep kind.
Sleep has few terrors if we sleep like you it is a cooling shower that falls on you the water running through mirrors noiselessly dreaming in doing things you dreamt to do.
But now all brawn Colossus straightens up and stammers in the language of birds and the sea goes mincing back into the sunset strange to have lived so long upon this planet daylight and moonlight, all the fun in the world.
- by Kenneth Allott42
Our Trojan world is polarised to mourn; To dream and find a black spot on the sun, And wake to love and find our lover gone.
The destination of any weapon is grief. In homesteads now where joy must seem naive Under a splitting sky our women conceive.
The towns of houses, massed security Out-generalled by a later century, Are hearse-plumes on an old economy.
The ache of crushed walls when the raid is over. This is a house, we said, we have built forever: A two-backed fool, thinking of one day's weather.
Only one monster has to love his error. Only his wrangling heart cannot recover, But glories in illusion when half cadaver;
Or likes being ill, or nurses grievances, Or calls a mountain or a forest 'his', Or quarrels in five hundred languages.
And man, erect, unvenerable, A bloodshot eye so simply vulnerable That half his history is marginal,
Incises stone in the Bastille of hate: 'Give us this day before it is too late Something to love indeed, enough to eat.'
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