Poetry by John Grey
Water Music overflows the bed room,
immersed in my Handel, need I go on,
my life’s grim proofreaders can take their leave,
I’ve other ways to set aside my doom
than confess all my failings, come and gone.
They can believe what they want to believe.
Here, at home with the Kapellmeister’s art,
My critics and I are ne’er so far apart.
It’s why I prefer music to people,
eighteenth century classics over talk
that descends into grief from everyone.
Give me fugue, toccata of the steeple,
You can stick in me your baton-shaped fork
Because I’m done, Hallelujah, I’m done
About the Poet
John Grey is an Australian poet, US resident. Recently published in
That, Dunes Review, Poetry East and North Dakota Quarterly with work
upcoming in Haight-Ashbury Literary Journal, Thin Air, Dalhousie
Review and failbetter.