I want a Wyatt I want a Wyatt
a Wyatt of my own, a whisper
in the bones Poetic, she sets foot
on the green path laughing.
Wyatt wanted a ticket
for the Petrarch sweet talk class,
he sang secrets stolen in Italie
for Inglish poetry beginning.
Planted country matters
smack in the fat porch of Henry’s ear,
left Puttenham counting syllables,
for with such craft he was not caught.
Wyatt was pre-lute, short on honey,
slipped a knife into the padded heart,
a jest a jest or politic ploy;
this is the song of Thomas Wyatt
To sing the Psalms in Inglish
to dazzle sweet spikey Anne
to make a template fine
red and ripe his revolution unfinished.
The Hard Heart Consort to play a sackbut riot, rip it up and start
again, softened only by recorders and bagpipes as night descends
on the river of song.
Copyright Kelvin Corcoran 2013