The Poetry Corner

Haven

By John Kendall (Dum-Dum)

Here, in mine old-time harbourage installed, Lulled by the murmurous hum of London's traffic To that full calm which may be justly called Seraphic, I praise the gods; and vow, for my escape From the hard grip of premature Jehannun, One golden-tissued bottle of the grape Per annum. For on this day, from Orient toils enlarged, Kneeling, I kissed the parent soil at Dover, Where a huge porter in his orbit charged Me over; Flashed in the train by Shorncliffe's draughty camp; Gazed on the hurrying landscape's pastoral graces, Old farms, and happy fields (a trifle damp In places); Passed the grim suburbs, indigent and bare Of natural foliage, but bravely flying Frank garlandry of last week's underwear Out drying; And so to Town; and with that blessed sight I, a poor fevered wreck, forgot to shiver - Forgot to mourn the Burden of my White Man's Liver; And felt my bosom heave, my breast expand, With thoughts too sweet, too deep for empty cackle, Such thoughts as nothing but a first-class Band Could tackle: Till, from its deeps, my celebrated smile (Which friends called Marvel) clove my jaws asunder, Lucid, intense, and all men stood awhile In wonder! Let none approach me now, for I have dined; The fire is bright; Havana's choice aroma Infects my being with a pleasant kind Of coma; Calmly I contemplate my future lot: I reconstruct the past - it fails to strike me With aught of horror (pity there are not More like me!) - My bosom's lord sits lightly on my breast; The East grows dim; and every hour I stuck to it Imparts a richer brightness to the West, Good luck to it!