“No opera plot can be sensible, for people do not sing when they are feeling sensible. “
W. H. Auden
by Veronica Forrest-Thomson
My love, if I write a song for you
To that extent you are gone
For, as everyone says, and I know it’s true:
We are all always alone.
Never so separate trying to be two
And the busy old fool is right.
To try and finger myself from you
Distinguishes day from night.
If I say “I love you” we can’t but laugh
Since irony knows what we’ll say.
If I try to free myself by my craft
You vary as night from day.
So, accept the wish for the deed my dear.
Words were made to prevent us near.
Through The Looking Glass
By Veronica Forrest-Thomson
Mirror, mirror on the wall
show me in succession all
my faces, that I may view
and choose which I would like as true.
Teach me skill to disguise
what’s not pleasing to the eyes,
with faith, that life obeys the rules,
in man or God or football pools.
Always keep me well content
to decorate attitude and event
so that somehow behind the scene
I may believe my actions mean;
that one can exercise control
in playing out a chosen role;
rub clouded glass and then,
at will, write self on it again.
But if, in some unlucky glance,
I should glimpse naked circumstance
in all its nowhere-going-to,
may you crack before I do.