Samuel Butler, by
Charles Gogin.
Being Samuel Butler
an aimless petulance
against Blake and Dante following him room to room
and their imagined apologies never enough
that either is forgiven
their cloudy arguments against the cult of Homer
at Mozart’s Requiem, covering his ears, humming, ‘loathsome
urns, disclose your treasure’
to drown the hideous Austrian discord
corner to corner, sweeping the floor with tea leaves
to mend the air
his friend Miss Savage, her limp the hip disease
that killed her, confidant of the way of all flesh, recognising
in him
another orphan
to humanity’s jarring azimuth
Estill Pollock
If you have any
thoughts about this poem, Estill
Pollock would like to hear them.
