FOR VW AT 84

I have decided Virginia Woolf may live

An additional twenty-five years

Beyond her suicide, the pond waters

Indignantly refusing to drown

A Glory of British Letters

Imagine her writing reviews of plays

By Angry Young Men or commenting

On Suez and Sputnik and leaving

Almost finished a brilliant jeu d'esprit

In which John Profumo awakens

In Hyde Park with Christine Keeler

And a demon who offers him

A gently used wish with a chip in it.

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?"

PHOTOGRAPH

Only the base of the statue shows

And a bit of the indeterminate garment –

Could be robes; could be a long coat –

The honored dead sometimes put on

When they’re being sculpted,

Politely saving the artist the trouble

Of being over-nice about anatomy.

Still, I know the photo was taken

In Hyde Park, at the Masaryk Memorial.

For years I saw that statue every day

Casually saluting it when I went by.

A young man I’ll know when he’s old

Sits next to the pedestal. My dear fellow!

How well you looked back then

With something rakish about you

And the faintest hint of the engineer

You might have been but for the War.

So you and Masaryk knew each other?

Pity I never knew; we might have shared

A few stories about you.