best at F11
Sonnets
Poet Lariat
He
kiste hire sweete and taketh his sawtrie,
And pleyeth faste, and maketh melodie.
Chaucer, The Miller's Tale
THE PSALTERY
The psaltery waits, strings taut and ready
prepared for use, the bows hang on the stand.
The player, rooted to the floor, feet steady
moves hips and arms in concert with each hand
which quickly strokes the ups and downs
draws resined hair across the strings;
they resonate with lovely sounds,
player and the played together sing.
Finely fashioned I, too, desire
that the Player take my bows
makes me incandescent, live on fire
be the beauty of the rose!
What good if perfect though you think you be
there is no godly stroke, no sound, no heav’nly energy?
Poems from the Eighth Decade
Copyright © Harold Macdonald 2004
used with permission