The goat, with amber dumb-bells in his eyes, The blasé lecher, inquisitive as sin, White sarcasm walking, proof against surprise, The nothing-like-him goat, goat-in-itself, Idea of goatishness made flesh, pure essence In idle masquerade on a rocky shelf – Hangs upside-down from lushest grass to twitch A shrivelled blade from the cliffs barren chest, And holds the grass well lost; the narrowest niche Is frame for the devils face; the steepest thatch Of barn or byre is pavement to his foot; The last, loved rose a prisoner to his snatch; And the man in his man-ness, passing, feels suddenly Hypocrite found out, hearing behind him that Vulgar vibrato, thin derisive me-eh. Credit to Norman MacCaig (‘A Common Grace’ 1960)
Posted on: Thu, 03 Apr 2014 14:45:27 +0000
Recently Viewed Topics
© 2015