Thom Gunn (1929 – 2004)
Anglo-American poet.
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Direct me gods, whose changes are all holy,
To where it flickers deep in grass, the moly.
Distorting hackneyed words in hackneyed songs
He turns revolt into a style, prolongs
The impulse to a habit of the time.
Thus for each blunt-faced ignorant one
The great grey rigid uniform combined
Safety with virtue of the sun.
Thus concepts linked like chainmail in the mind.
My thoughts are crowded with death
and it draws so oddly on the sexual
that I am confused
confused to be attracted
by, in effect, my own annihilation.
These seem like bristles, and the hide is tough.
No claw or web here: each foot ends in hoof.
One joins the movement in a valueless world,
Choosing it, till both hurler and the hurled,
One moves as well, always toward, toward.
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