BRAZEN

The golem, if she is one, felt I should write
A poem about the bronze statue of Achilles
Which stands in Hyde Park and is reputed
To be the ugliest public statue in England.
It’s 18 feet tall and made from melted cannons
Captured from the French by Arthur Wellesley.
It weighs 33 tonnes, which is, if you must know,
Seventy three thousand, nine hundred twenty pounds.
Originally nude, it somewhere acquired a fig leaf.
Its head belongs to the Iron Duke. He looks irate
At being exhibited nude in Hyde Park. How the golem
Got it through customs I cannot guess. She lugged it
Into my dreams two weeks ago and refuses to take it away
Last night, the standard anxiety dream I'd ordered
Turned into a farce. My accusers kept bursting into laughter
Or whispering "My God! Where did you find that thing?"

LOST BIRD

As birds will, this one

Had flown into the wrong poem
Where it fluttered about

Disturbing the grammar.

The Duke of Wellington,

Asked about the pigeons

Nesting  in St. Paul’s rafters

And twittering at vespers,

Suggested bringing in hawks

But my muse dislikes blood.

Brushing me aside,

She whistled and the bird

Came to her hand and sat

Seeming content to wait

For me to hire some trees,

Breed up a few birds

And rent a moon

Just two days past full.

A SECOND POEM ABOUT A GIANT NAKED STATUE OF NAPOLEON

The sea coal fires make London fogs
Thicker, more palpable, than all others
Condensing sometimes into a dog or hippogriff
Or megalosaurus, silently patrolling the streets
Until, for a while, the fog consents to lift.
Tonight, the fog has made a constable
With a tipstaff and an unlit lantern
(Fog has no love for fire and casually extinguishes
Unwary streetlamps that sputter too proudly)
Fog scorns detail but works to a large scale
So the constable is 8 feet tall. Still, he is puny
Compared to the giant nude statue of Napoleon
Who stands in Portland Terrace, looking up
"Mon ami," says the statue, "I break no laws here
Save those of probability and you, I think,
Are not innocent of that either. Just now,
On the world’s other side, the Emperor has died
Of poison, of boredom, of grief. When great men die
In Corsica, the brothers of death come with tapers
And muffled drums, sweeping through the streets
Clearing the way for his passage. It would be ungracious
For the Emperor's soul not to bid Ajaccio farewell

And I believe I will see it flying across the moon's face.
You, my friend, will give benighted drunks nightmares
And then vanish back into the fog that made you.
Dawn will find me in my usual place at Apsley House
Where Wellington will scowl to see again

How calm and regal Canova made me.
Neither of us is here; stand watch with me
Who knows but that the Emperor will notice us
Saluting him amidst his favorite enemies?"

A POEM ABOUT A GIANT NAKED STATUE OF NAPOLEON

Having seen Don Giovanni the night before
At the King's Theatre, in Ayrton's production,
And then drunk far too much with Harriet Wilson
The Iron Duke woke up feeling rusty. He descended
Very carefully, taking  great care that his head
Did not fall off. He had woken up in tears
For the violin -- the violin, of all things! --
That he’d burnt in 1792 when he and music
Had determined to part ways. As always
Canova’s damned statue was waiting for him.
If a grateful nation must give him naked statues
Why not, say, the one of the Princess Borghese
Or the Three Graces? No one with a hangover
Should have to face 11 feet of naked marble Napoleon.
As always, he nodded to the statue as he went by
Refusing to be cowed. The statue smirked
Silently. "The Commendatore's statue," the Duke said,
"Spoke sixteen to the dozen; he sang; I believe
He would have danced too, given the right cue
But you! A grimace sometimes; a raised brow
Or sneer of cold command, but never a word."
The statue opened his mouth then shut it again.
"Had the Emperor won at Waterloo," he thought
"And France, relieved and joyous, had given him
Some preposterous statue of the Great Duke
He would never have exhibited it with only a fig leaf
Improbably and inadequately preserve its modesty."