Amo. Amas. Amat. Does he really? How wonderful.
A kiss translated from the Greek
we received it in the bootroom, and we prayed
prayed until our heads were cold with a pure sweat
a simple dew, and ignorant.
Not knowing the tomb when it touched us, not seeing
the small, immediate burial of a child
taking this first warning as a gift, which was only
the last tap of an old woodpecker.
Across the harsh field the bell comes like a stone
killing him who was telling us our first story.
He, the lustful elder, the dead woodpecker, is silent, so distressed
to be left alone again by youth, to be so abandoned
perched on the fence alone, in a pair of gold spectacles
with a few red feathers round a broken beak.
In an aseptic chapel, singing for Sunday supper
our voices fail at the high note, the most holy.
In the chapel sits the false eagle, the convert
armoured in Christian brass, sprawling
in a lean nest of Easter lilies.
Here, the only eagle is brass
and the saints have long since expelled the serpent
leaving the lilies, virgins in a vase, open in death
flowers of white soap, washed well, like the dead
starched, like the white cowls of the dead, waxed, smelling of an immortal Sunday.
This one I like, and you can see more of his personality and it is not so much "I am vacationing in Spain" as the previous one.
The influence of TS Eliot is strong though, and it is true that it was one of the poets that he liked. Was infamous for liking. Or should we talk about the coincidence between them? Because it must also be true: there has to be a reason that Howard was drawn to him in the first place. You can tick the themes off a list: the Catholic religion, the loss of youth, birds and flowers, the eagle as a convert, or someone halfway doubtful, the juxtaposition of the ancient and eternal with what is contemporary. But show me a poet of the time who doesn't speak of birds and flowers and we'll be waiting here a long time.
A difference is that love is not the loss of innocence -- of ignorance -- here, but the renewal of it.