Iris Murdoch Born with a brain

Iris Murdoch

Born with a brain

Which she used to think.

The flames didn't burn

When she was cast

Down into hell with the likes of Shaw,

Galileo and Oscar Wilde.

In Denny's With Him

The past never changes

Nor memories die.

Resolute soft on the

Shore they lie,

Washed by the water.

The waves lift high.

Thousands of cherubim

Fall from the sky

And into old castles

Contentedly fly.

You deserve everything

Money can buy,

And all that it can't.

When I hear the cry

Of hope in your voice

I know you're shy.

Are my poems good?

Are my poems good? Can someone tell me?

Or will somebody? Once some people did.

Maybe god in heaven when I die.

(So many souls in heaven! Fewer souls

Would ease the strain on credibility.)

I've written songs so bad they make me shudder,

Wince. But some so lovely that I sigh

And wonder how I ever made it happen.

I know some souls who ought to be in heaven.

And a few that like a minotaur

Hell is waiting for. And they're not children,

Though once they were, and I'm not sure of that!

Heaven, hell and poetry! And music.

Even that's entirely disappeared.

 

Her

Your leg is in a trap.

The chain has little range.

She's where she wants to be.

She will not change.

She has the things she wants.

And they are yours.