Goddess, sing me not, that barbaric yawp
of man’s puny sorrows. He wants to swap
his countless ills, not go down to Hades.
The dogs and vultures wait to lick the blades
of his small quarrel, spilled like cheap Merlot
from the gods’ table. A TV talk show,
O Muse, has replaced you. It croons out doom
like a tone-deaf jazz singer. Homer’s tune
is in the jukebox waiting a dollar
but it’s unplugged and no one seems bothered.

 

Oliver Mort is from Belfast, Northern Ireland. His poetry has been published in many fine journals such as The Rialto, The Yellow Nib, Envoi and others. He has new work due in Wasafiri in 2018.

 

 

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