Collected Poems Anthony Burgess (best pdf reader for ebooks txt) 📖

a two,

And with these three they play the game

Of doing what they have to do.

‘OH, LOVE, LOVE, LOVE’

Oh, love, love, love –

Love on a hilltop high,

Love against a cloudless sky,

Love where the scene is

Painted by a million stars,

Love with martinis

In the cabarets and bars.

Oh, love, love, love…

‘WE WILL BUILD A BRIDGE TO HEAVEN’

We will build a bridge to heaven,

Build in earnest, not in play;

Night and morning, noon and even,

We will watch and we will pray.

‘WE’LL BE COMING HOME’

We’ll be coming home,

Coming, coming home.

Some day soon,

January or June,

Evening, morning or afternoon –

– So just you stand and wait

By the garden gate

Till my ship comes bouncing o’er the foam.

We’ll be together

For ever and ever,

Never more to roam –

– He’ll be coming,

We’ll be coming,

I’ll be coming home.

We’ll be together

For ever and ever,

Never more to roam –

We’ll be coming home,

Coming, coming home.

Some day soon,

January or June,

Evening, morning or afternoon –

‘MY ADORABLE FRED’

My adorable Fred:

He’s so, so sweet,

From the crown of his head

To the soles of his feet.

He’s my meat.

‘MY DEAD TREE. GIVE ME BACK MY DEAD DEAD TREE’

My dead tree. Give me back my dead dead tree.

Rain, rain, go away. Let the earth be still

Dry. Kick the gods back into the cakey earth,

Making a hole, for that purpose, with a drill.

The northern winds send icy peace,

The southern gales blow balmy.

Pelagius is fond of police;

Augustine loves an army.

‘THIS LOVELY QUEEN, IF I SHOULD WIN HER’

This lovely queen, if I should win her,

Shall have my heart for a medallion.

She’ll never lack a hearty dinner,

This lovely queen, if I should win her.

My fire shall rouse the fire that’s in her,

She’ll ride my sea, a golden galleon,

This lovely queen. If I should win her,

She’ll have my heart for a medallion.

‘HOW COME THAT SUCH A SCHOLAR’

How come that such a scholar

Can put up with such a squalor?

Just gimme hafe a dollar

And I’ll make it spick and span, man.

‘ICH NEM’ EIN’ ZIGARETT’

Ich nem’ ein’ Zigarett’

Un ich fuhl du liebst much nicht mehr

Und ich weiss es ist aus

Un da macht mein Herz so schwer.

Yet

With my cigarette

Thought I give no more than I get

There’s no sigh of regret

At the end of my cigarette.

‘YOU WHOM THE FISHERFOLK OF MYRA BELIEVE’

You whom the fisherfolk of Myra believe

To have power over the sea

Acknowledge a power as old as Eve –

The sea’s goddess, Venus, me!

O tue che a Mira ogni pescatore

Venera pel potere che hai sul mare

Conoscer devi la potenza arcana

Di Vener, dea del mar, me, sovrunmana.

‘WAKING AND SLEEPING’

Waking and sleeping

It’s always the same,

Sleeping and waking

I call on your name.

Sleeping I cry,

Waking I sigh,

Knowing there’s no reply.

We’re versing and voicing

Our heartfelt rejoicing,

Your troubles belong to the past

So nuzzle and nestle,

For you’ve said it, Cecil,

At last.

‘MONEY ISN’T EVERYTHING’

Money isn’t everything –

It’s only board and bed,

The only thing distinguishing

Being living, being dead

(So I’ve heard it said).

‘I’LL CRASH THE MOON’

I’ll crash the moon

To fetch a spoon

Of precious lunar dust.

I’ll fly as high

As heaven’s eye.

I’ll even die

If I must.

Anything at all

I’ll gladly do

To prove a lasting

Love for you.

Each and every task

Beneath the sun:

You only have to ask –

It’s done.

UNE P’TITE SPÉCIALITÉ CALLED L’AMOUR

Meet her at a table

Out side some small café,

Say she’s adorable

In such a Gallic way.

Let your lady fair know

That she is all you see,

Prime her with a Pernod

Or three.

Make the chestnuts blossom

And keep away the rain,

Under the gossamer

Soon you’ll start to eat like an epicure –

Une p’tite spécialité called l’amour.

Take another table

Inside a restaurant,

Somewhere formidable

Where you’ll be très contents.

Comfort her with oysters

In quite the classic style –

Succulent and moist as

Her smile.

See her crack a lobster

And strip it to the buff,

Rough as when a mobster

Gets tough.

Keep the wine cascading and you’ll ensure

Une p’tite spécialité called l’amour.

When you had dined,

You find some boîte

Whereat they’re inclined

To l’érotique.

Keep her close entwined

Till your minds

Grow weak.

When you have danced,

Chance takes you where

The air is entranced

With Paris spring.

There you’ll hear her whisper

The thing

You’ll want to hear till

All the city sparrows

Are chirping to the sun,

Market stalls and barrows

Say morning has begun.

Light as gold as taffy

Is sugaring the day

While you drink your café

Au lait.

Bite into a croissant

And smile upon your love;

Hear the larks en passant

Above.

They make it ev’ry day in

Their own Parisian way:

Paris may be sinful, but one thing’s pure –

It’s une p’tite spécialité called l’amour.

CABBAGE FACE

CABBAGE

FACE: Cabbage Face.

If you were in Paris, you

Might be called mon petit choux,

But you’re in a different place,

So I call you Cabbage Face.

NATHAN’S SONG

David’s people we,

Seeking David’s town.

A simple shepherd he

Who acquired a crown.

David, kind of Israel,

Wish well.

‘THY MOUTH, A FIG, THY TEETH’

Thy mouth, a fig, thy teeth

Troops in ivory array.

Of the treasures ranged beneath

I may yet nothing say.

Must I wait till the nuptial day?

‘MY LOVE LAY ACROSS THE WATERS’

My love lay across the waters,

Twenty leagues away,

Fairest of fifteen daughters

So they used to say.

I’ll go back to her some day.

‘FISH GREY, FISH BROWN’

Fish grey, fish brown,

Will you come up, or must we go down?

Fish silver, fish white,

Will you permit us to eat you tonight?

Fish green, fish red,

How on earth can the people be fed?

Fish dull, fish bright,

Will you permit us to catch you tonight?

THE PRODIGAL SON

There was a man who had two sons,

And he loved them both in equal measure.

He put aside, so the story runs,

Gold for both from his ample treasure.

Oh, the prodigal son.

‘Father, father, the time is come’,

So said the younger son one day,

‘To give to me my promised sum.

Thank you, father’. And he went away.

Oh, the prodigal son.

He wasted his gold on whores and wine,

And very soon the gold was gone.

A famine came to Palestine

And it did not spare this spendthrift one.

Oh, the prodigal son.

So he became, against his will,

A swineherd, far from Galilee.

He would have eaten of the porkers’ swill,

Had he not been something of a Pharisee.

Oh, the prodigal son.

‘My father’s men have bellies full

With bread and wine and roasts to carve.

They are snug and warm in leather and wool,

While I must shiver and I must starve.’

Oh, the prodigal son.

He has left the swine, he has left the trough,

He has left the foul hut wherein he slept.

His father