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Tuesday, August 01, 2017

The Earl of Surrey Buggers up Boulogne (Euroland)

I am posting these poems, writings-through of some sonnets by Surrey, as I write them, because of the topicality of their subjects. I shall also only leave them up temporarily, during the composition process. I'm thinking of posting no more than 4 at any one time on the blog. And eventually they will all disappear. See here to check for poems from other days. Scroll back and find the other three... Also note the beginning of this sonnet exploration, Petrarch 3, is still for sale and is the featured post to the right of this column. And one of my previous Wyatt poems is here: from Hap: Understudies of Thomas Wyatt’s Petrarch. And another, recently published in International Times here


I guide this warrior-poet from a renaissant land, who says:
They call me the beast of Boulogne. The enemy was well
dagged with arrows; my fellows brake their staves and maces
upon the blooded Frenchmen’s cracking Euro-bones!

But what of your flat-footed, crooked-ankled, squint-eyed, men?
Oh them! he said. Or your debts? Oh! those, he said. Your dad
would bury you alive to survive! (He did). My only enemy
- this is the poem speaking now – is within! (Not true.)

If battered Boulogne is rendered then daddy would push for Calais:
you’d be in charge of its dispersed refugees, its post-Brexit duty-free,
the English border! But you are in servitude to your fantasy of
yourself, pleasing pain, the biopic, the coat of arms, the portrait.

You’re going to bugger it up, moaning to your self
‘Glad to be Unhappy’ but ready for the ill-at-ease easy answer.    

OR:



I guided this warrior-poet from a renaissant land, who said:
They call me the beast of Boulogne. The enemy was well
dagged with arrows; my fellows brake their staves and maces
upon the blooded Frenchmen’s cracking Euro-bones!

But what of your flat-footed, crooked-ankled, squint-eyed, men?
Oh them! he said. Or your debts? Oh! those, he said. Your dad
would bury you alive to survive! (He did.) My only enemy –
this is the poem speaking now – is within! (Not true, my lord.)

If battered Boulogne is rendered then daddy would push for Calais:
you’d be in charge of its dispersed refugees, its post-Brexit duty-free,
the English border! But you are in servitude to your fantasy:
your self, its pleasing pain, that coat of arms, this portrait, my biopic.

You’re going to bugger it up, moaning to your self ‘Glad to be
Unhappy’ but, enrobed, easing towards the ill-at-ease easy answer.    

OR

Image result for tudor armour




I guide this warrior-poet from a renaissant land, who says:
They call me the beast of Boulogne. The enemy was well
dagged with arrows; my fellows brake their staves and maces
upon the blooded Frenchmen’s cracking Euro-bones!

But what of your flat-footed, crooked-ankled, squint-eyed, men?
Oh them! he said. Or your debts? Oh! those, he said. Your dad
would bury you alive to survive! (He will.) My only enemy –
this is the poem speaking now – is within! (Not true, my lord.)

If battered Boulogne is rendered then daddy would push for Calais:
you’d be in charge of its refugee camp, its post-Brexit duty-free,
the English border! But you are in servitude to your fantasy:
your self, its pleasing pain, that coat of arms, this portrait, my biopic.

You’re going to bugger it up, moaning to your self ‘Glad to be
Unhappy’ but, enrobed, easing towards that ill-at-ease easy answer.    


OR with horribly punning title, mishearing my own voice, reading the original, which is 'The fancy which I have served long':



Enemy to My Knees

I guide this warrior-poet from a renaissant land, who says:
They call me the beast of Boulogne. The enemy was well
dagged with arrows; my fellows brake their staves and maces
upon the blooded Frenchmen’s cracking Euro-bones!

But what of your flat-footed, crooked-ankled, squint-eyed, men?
Oh them! he said. Or your debts? Oh! those, he said. Your dad
would bury you alive to survive! (He will.) My only enemy –
this is the poem speaking now – is within! (Not true, my lord.)

If battered Boulogne is rendered then daddy would push for Calais:
you’d be in charge of its refugee camp, its post-Brexit duty-free,
the English border! But you are in servitude to your fantasy:
your self, its pleasing pain, that coat of arms, this portrait, my biopic.

You’re going to bugger it up, moaning to yourself ‘Glad to be
Unhappy’ but, enrobed, easing toward that ill-at-ease easy answer.    

I have now got Bo and Go and Dox and Fox in it: It's pretty truthful to the Earl of Surrey's predicament:



Direct Rule: Enemy to My Knees

I guide this warrior-poet from a renaissant land, who says:
They call me the Beast of Boulogne. The enemy was well
dagged with arrows; Fox and Dox brake their staves and maces
upon the blooded Frenchmen’s cracking Euro-bones!

But what of your flat-footed, crooked-ankled, squint-eyed, men?
Oh them! he said. Or your debts? Oh! those, he said. Your dad
would bury you alive to survive! (He will!) My only enemy – this
is the poem speaking – lies within! (Not true, chortle Bo and Go.)

If battered Boulogne is rendered then daddy would push for Calais:
you’d be in charge of its refugee camp, its post-Brexit duty-free,
the English border! But you are in servitude to your fantasy:
your self, its pleasing pain, that coat of arms, this portrait, my biopic.

You’re going to bugger it up, moaning to yourself ‘Glad to be
Unhappy’ but, enrobed, easing toward that ill-at-ease easy answer.    

1st August 2017

note: hubristic jingoism