The New Adventures of Mr Stephen Fry

The New Adventures of Mr Stephen Fry » Topic: Poetry http://www.stephenfry.com/forum/topic/poetry-2 Just another bbPress community en-US Wed, 19 Jun 2013 07:21:22 +0000 http://bbpress.org/?v=1.0.2 <![CDATA[Search]]> q http://www.stephenfry.com/forum/search.php James on "Poetry" http://www.stephenfry.com/forum/topic/poetry-2#post-62738 Mon, 05 May 2008 04:45:52 +0000 James 62738@http://www.stephenfry.com/forum/ Dear Mr. Fry, A poem for you, dedicated to Oscar Wilde Wilde A poem dedicated to the virtuoso of passion and words Written for Stephen Fry By James Finch Does the handsome figure of the devil reside in the deep places of the earth Does he look up at Heaven, where dost God reside in his splendour, And his mirth… does it not wander to and froe between man and man Do the angels and saints regard us with envious eyes, as to angels and saints We give birth Does Pan and as well all his nymphs and fauns not lull us with eyes and tune And are there not three goddesses sitting on three thrones dictating, Our fate and our doom; for every man does destroy the thing he loves most Because his wonders do wander on it far too much, even with … how without! A ghost in his room Or is it man, who is above and below and in every thing in the wide world Man who giveth life and death, who causeth pain and pleasure and memory begets In great measures; are we not little gods too Standing on the firmament of the earth, bending the forces of the universe Using blood and gold Everything is here on one straight line; light and dark and death and life Drunkenness, jest and youth, knowledge and wisdom and wit saline So many choices and not enough time... knowing this can be a strife When a thing of beauty comes along, and fills up all your eyes And debases your deepest mind For how long can a man breath the fair scent and be tickled by the rose When he longs for the thorn to prick his side, to see his own blood, To know that he is alive… He must suffer to know true pleasure He must feel the grip of loneliness, he must sniff the stench of death While all the while he strikes a pose As if he does not smell it in his nose, as if he does not feel the tick of every second And so he grows, ever more longing, ever more bloody smitten by it; Of his emotions he can chooseth not, be this fact not ne’er forgot Lest the royal colour in his veins be utterly muddy, useless and shit When in front of all proper propriety Let him go with it, let him surrender to it, let him be swollen with it Let him not, however, be consumed by it, rather let him consume it and be sick, Dilated with never-ending giving, sore with taking let him be, let him be From on high let him view the little people, from far below let him look up their pants! Let him be, candid and frivolous with it Those with eyes to see, with nose to smell and fingers to touch you must know it Taste the air with your mouth, hear the wind in your ears and think thoughts divine, And know it not in parts or less than completely, make it thine and let it have thee Let it come close so you can smell it, let it come closer so you can feel it, Let it come closer still so you can taste it Eat of it heartily, drink of it and let it fill you up For if you cannot do thy will you do nothing, thy works will be a spider’s shed skin, But a shell, lifeless and without colour, lacking though not in form If you will not be yourself, noone will remember you but the one who you made to be Is to parrot and continue, do you think, the reason you were born Or to create and begin It stands to reason anyway, that each man should go his way And if two should happen to cross, most often a meeting is ignored and lost Let them rejoice and be merry, let them be happy and gay, Let them meet on and island in the turbulent waters, whereby others are tossed Let the walls be still, let the music play