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Wed, 12 May 2010
Classic Poems is very pleased to place here at Dodie's Dream World this wonderful rendition of his feelings in the day and age. Enjoy


Tonight I watched an old programme of "Who wants to be a Millionaire," on the television and this question was: Which of these four arts did "Lysippous" find a career in?
So I typed "Lysippous " into the browser and two answers came on the screen. The first telling me that he was a sculptor and the second telling me that there is a website called called; and I quote;
"The November 3rd Club." and being totally nosey I popped along to have a look at what it was all about. Imagine how surprised I was to find that it is a place for the written word, both in poetry and verse etc.
I have to admit to not reading through everything but I did glance through the pages and thought I might introduce them to all the people who look here on "Dodies Dream World." and "Seligor's Castle."
I have chosen this little piece about what I hope Mr Wheeler himself was stating in verse.  And that was the young, and old who take part in the "suicide bombings around the world in these sad days. It is a sad reflection that he leaves us with but one that is very, very real.




It is an old dream
which returns.  How
innocent and guilty

are thrown together
at some unexpected, yet
not unplanned moment.

I am the tourist, anxious
to rediscover Italy
in the manner of Henry James,

or spend a summer in the dry
dust of Ephesus near Aphrodite's
temple, listening to nightingales.

I was taught to be fearless.
Who could imagine people
who harm for the sake of harm

itself?  Suddenly, I am an object
of great value, a bronze cast by
the hand of Lysippous, an idea

worthy of the contemplation
of ten thousand fevered
imaginations.  I am purpose.

I am network news, international
if killed at the right time.  No
malice, just timing.

When the grenade rolls near
my feet, I have just finished
a glass of wine, or a demitasse

of espresso, or made a final
offer to the rug merchant
on a carpet for my study.

My blood sprays up into
the disordered marketplace
where a young man dips

his finger into a widening
pool, writes the name of God
on the paving stones.

I hope Mr Wheeler doesn't object to my adding his work to my Classic Poems page but if I have offended  The 3rd November Club in any way, just email myself and I will remove it straight away. Seligor of Seligor's castle aka Dodie Milnes Simm at dottido@hotmail.co.uk

Posted 15:59

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