Paul Muldoon
Gold
for Gerard Quinn
You loomed like Merlin
over the class
of 1962,
your soutane
pocket like the scar
of an appendectomy.
Only the year before
old Frost
had swung the lead
in hailing Kennedy —
A golden age
of poetry and power.
Twenty years on you reach
into the breast
of your wind-cheater
for a red pencil:
'All cancelled.
Nothing Gold Can Stay.'
Not the dead weight
of a grouse
flaunted from an open car.
Not Soutine's
Hare on a Green Shutter.
Not Marilyn.
poetrymagazines' note: Reproduced with kind permission of the poet.
Page(s) 52
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