John Whitworth: Two Poems

The Power of Love

How beautiful the boy who holds my heart,

How smooth his satin skin, how fresh his feature.

He promises that we will never part,

This boy who so astonishes my heart,

Against all truth, morality and nature.

He is the pinnacle of my desire,

The ransom that unlocks my shivering soul.

The prophecy that issues from the fire,

The pinnacle of my surprised desire,

The smouldering rose that glows within the coal.

Now and forever in this world of dew,

All quality and excellence are his.

He sings the things I did not know I knew.

Now and forever in this world of dew,

I feel the softness of his silences.

Be still, my startled heart, my soul arise.

Now day is done, the ensorcelled moon above

Sails on, reflected in our lovers’ eyes.

Be still, my heart, my sleeping soul arise.

Love conquers all and all abides in love.

The eyes that shone are shrivelled in the head.

The mouth that sang is stopped with earth and stones.

Love bleeds into the dust. My boy is dead.

Night demons play at football with his head,
And harpies suck the marrow from his bones.

John Whitworth

Ballade d’Inconséquence

(The chorus is a remark (slightly emended) by James Salter.)

If the world is but a text

Then the future doesn’t matter,

But we care what’s coming next,

So we deprecate their chatter.

How your heart goes pitter-patter

When the story-tellers start.

Yet the story doesn’t matter.

It’s the words that break your heart.

Spicy, dicey, oversexed,

French connections fried in batter,

Leave the English mind perplexed

As they leave the body fatter.

It’s the natter of a satyr

It’s a professorial fart,

For the story doesn’t matter.

It’s the words that break your heart.

You are permanently hexed,

Like a turd at a regatta,

Like a muscle left unflexed,

Like a hat without a hatter.

It’s the pause before the clatter,

It’s the horse before the cart,

And the story doesn’t matter.

It’s the words that break your heart.

You can plough the fields and scatter,

You can hone the devil’s dart,

Still the story doesn’t matter.

It’s the words that break your heart.

John Whitworth