John Whitworth: Two Poems

The Castle 

Come in. This is the place and I’m the king of it.

Come in, and get yourselves into the swing of it.

You’ll never want to leave and that’s the truth of it.

In truth you never can, and that’s the thing of it.

The barren dotage and the wasted youth of it.

The throbbing forehead and the aching tooth of it.

You’ll never want to want and that’s the rub of it.

The secret sorrow and the random ruth of it.

The Smiler’s bloody knife, the Giant’s club of it,

The Satan sheen, the black Beelzebub of it.

The burning fiery furnace and the flame of it.

The unreadiness is all, and that’s the rub of it.

A thousand gamblers failed to make a game of it,

A thousand lawyers failed to fix the flame of it,

A thousand choirs of angels never sing of it.

A thousand tongues forget to speak the name of it.

The fling of it, the great black beating wing of it.

The Hydra’s hellish bite, the Scorpion’s sting of it.

The crown of it, the cross of it, the ring of it.

This is the very place and I’m the king of it

The fling of it, the great black beating wing of it.

The Hydra’s hellish bite, the Scorpion’s sting of it.

A thousand tongues forget to speak the name of it.

The fling of it, the great black beating wing of it.

The Hydra’s hellish bite, the Scorpion’s sting of it.

The crown of it, the cross of it, the ring of it.

This is the very place and I’m the king of it.

John Whitworth

________________________

The Window

My heart is an abandoned house

Where there is nothing left to stir,

Except the scrabbling of a mouse.

Thick dust lies on the furniture.

Long, languid ghosts are sleek and stark,

As up and down and to and fro,

With pregnant stirrings of the dark,

Blind, wretched presences, they go.

Heedless and hopeless, night and day,

Remembrances of things long past,

We are undone, they seem to say.

Futility is come at last.

And yet, and yet, the dream of you …

High up there is a window where

Are glimpses of a patch of blue,

Are inklings of a clearer air.

John Whitworth