BOTTLES

One day Verlaine's mother saw
That a ringer had slipped in
Among the bottles where she kept
Her four unborn sons.
The bottles all looked the same
Their inhabitants staring as usual.
When Verlaine reeled home
He confessed he'd pawned one of his brothers
But, finding himself in funds again,
Had returned to redeem him
Only to find the pawnshop clerk
Offering him two labelless bottles;
He brought both of them home.
"But surely you noticed one was a girl?"
"I am the drunken glory of French poetry
And, as such, need not pay taxes
Or concern myself with infant genitalia."

VERLAINE TAKES SOME TIME OFF

Feeling unwell Verlaine was advised

To find somewhere the winter sun.

One of his five unborn brothers –

Scholars disagree which one it was --

Agreed to take his place for a while

Springing from the bottle their mother

Had put him in after her miscarriage.

Over five frenzied weeks he wrote

Thirty three poems and a masque.

When Verlaine returned his brother

Apologized for having shot Rimbaud

Verlaine shrugged and the two

Drank absinthe and drew lots

As to which would go to jail.

ANOTHER'S DREAM

He took care I should recognize him

Holding a glass of green liqueur which was

Almost his trademark. Still, the yellow eyes

And huge bald head would have been enough

“Monsieur Verlaine?” “I pray you – speak English!

Your French is quite painfully bad.”

“As you will. Satisfy my curiosity; are we

In one of my dreams or yours?” “Neither good sir;

You would not survive ten minutes in my dreams

Not even the gentle ones with the shepherds

And I would– permit me to speak frankly! –

 Perish of boredom in your worst nightmare.

“I know a whore – are there any I don’t know?—

She dreams of us both. How disappointed she is!

She was hoping for great feathered hats

And parfaits and reconciliation with her sister

Who died unhappily when she was 16.”

VERLAINE'S BROTHERS

Four miscarried brothers had Verlaine
Who dwelt, each in his own jar, in a cupboard.
"Had I but had the fortune to be born,"
Sighed the eldest, "I'd have written poems
That would have made strong men run mad
And go barking through the streets of Paris."
There was a crack in the second jar; through it
The second one's soul would slip out at night
And haunt the dreams of respectable women.
Loathe would I be to lie to you, Reader;
I have no idea what the third son did though ever
Was there something unchancy about his eyes.
Nor would I willingly betray the secrets
Which the fourth son, in his despair,
Told me all the length of a winter's night.