Some time ago I attended a launch and was treated to a performance that had me wondering how much we owe/suffer from Richard Burton and his ‘Under Milkwood’ syndrome.
This is an homage (I think) and not to be taken at all seriously.
It should be read in a fug of smoke, after drinking 10 pints of mild and in the manner of an English actor copying a parody of Anthony Hopkins playing Richard Burton. The rest is up to you…
Coal black, lamp black, front back
carrion crow of a beard
eating syllables written for worms
on the wings of a dove like leek,
spoken by a man of pasties if not pastiche.
Overwrought in the foundries of words
dragged out of crucibles
in the deep dark mines of oration,
tumbling in Tumble until vowels
torture themselves into oblivion.
Will there be scones still for tea
as stray bluebottles impale themselves
in obeisance to the horned gods
atop each eye?
And yet though sound and fury
signify something untold and unspoken
in the performance cast before
we pearls of wisdom as sit, waiting
for the word to speak through all,
we nod, and smile, and applaud
a greater man than we asked for
or cared to receive.
He came he spoke he conquered,
made a wilderness and called it peace.