Eve is madly in love with Hugh
And Hugh is keen on Jim.
Charles is in love with very few
And few are in love with him.
Myra sits typing notes of love
With romantic pianist's fingers.
Dick turns his eyes to the heavens above
Where Fran's divine perfume lingers.
Nicky is rolling eyes and tits
And flaunting her wiggly walk.
Everybody is thrilled to bits
By Clive's suggestive talk.
Sex suppressed will go berserk,
But it keeps us all alive.
It's a wonderful change from wives and work
And it ends at half past five.
Estava Miss Twye ensaboando as mamas na barrela
Quando atrás de mim um acintoso riso ouviu,
E para seu grande espanto olhando descobriu
Um homem mau no armário à espreita dela.
COLEGAS DE ESCRITÓRIO
A Eva está doida pelo Quim
Mas o Quim gosta do João.
O Carlos não tem paixões
E poucos por ele têm paixão.
Com dedos de pianista romântico
A São bate cartas de amor.
O Zé põe os olhos no céu
Onde paira o perfume da Leonor.
A Carla revira olhos e tetas
E rebola-se toda a andar.
E todos se excitam de gozo
Com as piadas do Valdemar.
Sexo reprimido dá em tarado,
Mas é o que nos aguenta.
É tão bom mudar do patrão e da mulher
E acabar às cinco e cinquenta.
Traduções de João Ferreira Duarte, em "LEITURAS
poemas do inglês", Relógio de Água, 1993.
The love we thought would never stop
Those who make hurried love don't do so
from any lack of affection
or because they despise their partner
as a human being -
what they're doing
is just as sincere as a more formal wooing.
She may have a train to catch; perhaps the
room is theirs for one hour only
or a mother is expected back or
known, awaited -
so the spur of the moment must be celebrated.
Making love against time is really
the occupation of all lovers
and the clock-hands moving
point a moral:
not crude, but clever
are those who grab what soon is gone for ever.
The Black Box
well as these poor poems
I die they will be buried
so my will provides.
a valuable lesson
Published: 5 March 2013
, a collection of “classic” interviews published this month, might not be the first place you would think to look for a poet – but there he is, Gavin Ewart, chatting with Nigel Spivey over a Negroni or three, at the Café Royal. It is a reminder that this “naturally modest man”, who published hardly any poetry for twenty years and worked in advertising for another twenty (he came up with the name “Strongbow” for a certain Herefordshire cider), was deemed by Harold Bloom to be “one of the essential writers of the 20th century”. There was vindication in that accolade, as Spivey notes, “proving that good light verse has a place with good heavy verse in our lives”.
Plenty of Ewart’s verse, not all of it light, appeared in the from the 1970s onwards. He paid tribute to the paper’s brain-teasing “Author, Author” competition with an unsolvable pastiche, and defended his friend Peter Reading’s poem “Cub” from a charge of anti-Semitism. “Conversation Piece”, published at the end of December 1977, is a serious business, too, despite its playfulness (that punning title, that parenthetic “are we direct?”). The subject is age of several kinds, as well as sex: the aged relatives; another age (“same game / . . . different rules”); the timelessness of myth; old age in general. In the end, as if exhausted and resigned at last, the conventional rhyme scheme does its best to flatten out, into .
I sit and hear my mother and my aunt talking of dog-carts, of a century gone I try to imagine (there are some who can’t). Their total age is 181. Under the clothes, the bodies were the same as those the striptease, shamelessly as cards, deals to the watchers now. Just the same game but played by different rules; , ,
masks of all sorts, the flirting with a fan, a kind of fencing with an instinct. Who loved who they had their ways of knowing, woman and man Something outside them told them what to do. They weren’t direct like us (are we direct?), Victoria sat there like a monolith but even nice girls knew what to expect, how Zeus crept up on Leda in the myth –
without a visiting card, in fancy dress. No lady left the house without her gloves. Deafness makes meaning something they must guess, arthritis stiffens Venus and her doves, for three decades no lovemaking at all – beauty was jolly, with a motoring veil. There should be writing, writing on the wall: All sex shall fail, but love shall never fail.
Gavin Ewart (1977)
Mr. Bauld's English - 7 poems
Poem “The Dildo”