This poem is taken from PN Review 45, Volume 12 Number 1, September - October 1985.
PoemsA LETTER FROM THE LEVANT C. 1870
As you last hoped I have not 'brooded
On poetry in my room'. My Tennyson
Lies in the arms of the cold Aegean
With all the warm clothing I had
After a clumsy landing. Last night
I sang hymns along the sand
Shouldering my way through the wind
Swathed in a goats-hair blanket
Presented to me by a low Greek.
Passing later, I dined at his hovel
On fish cooked tolerably well
And when we touched glasses he spoke
Darkly of 'the Pasha our master'.
I was obliged to mention Lord Byron
And my position as a free Englishman,
...
The page you have requested is restricted to subscribers only. Please enter your username and password and click on 'Continue'.
If you have forgotten your username and password, please enter the email address you used when you joined. Your login details will then be emailed to the address specified.
If you are not a subscriber and would like to enjoy the 285 issues containing over 11,500 poems, articles, reports, interviews and reviews, why not subscribe to the website today?
If you have forgotten your username and password, please enter the email address you used when you joined. Your login details will then be emailed to the address specified.
If you are not a subscriber and would like to enjoy the 285 issues containing over 11,500 poems, articles, reports, interviews and reviews, why not subscribe to the website today?
