I offer you my forests and my street-cries
With hands of double-patience under the clock,
The antiseptic arguments and lies
Uttered before the flood, the submerged rock.
The sack of meal pierced by the handsome fencer,
The flowers dying for a great adventure.
I offer you the mysterious parable,
The mount of reason, the hero's glassy hymn,
The disquieting uproar of the obvious
Hate in the taproom, murder in the barn
The long experienced finger of the Gulf Stream,
The flying sense of glory in a failure's dream.
I offer you the bubble of free will,
The rarefied agony of forgotten places,
The green cadaver stirring to the moon's pull,
The cheerful butchery of raw amateur faces
Which, like the half-blind nags shipped off for food
Die, doubtless serving some higher good.
I offer you the Egyptian miracle,
The acrobat doing handsprings in the rain,
A touched up photograph in sepia
Of the future teasing the fibres of the brain
I offer you the seven league army boots he wears
Striding down the black funnel of the years.
I offer you a coral growth of cells,
A flash of lightning anchored in a carafe
The withered arm of the last century
Cannot provoke a demon to anger us,
The strap-hanging skeleton of what has been
Is out of date forever like the crinoline.
I offer you clouds of nuisance, fleur de lis,
The opening lips of summer where pigeons rest
The exploding office of the vast nebula
The heraldic device under the left breast,
The taut string and the scribbler's Roman tread
Impinging on the slow shores of the dead.
I offer you the tithes of discontent,
The deck-games played with shadows on a cruise
Beyond the islands, marked on the ancient maps
With the broken altars, markets in disuse
To some "unspoilt" and blessed hemisphere
Where comfort twists the lucid strands of air.
I would offer you so much more if you would turn
Before the new whisper in a forgiving hour.
Let all the wild ones who have offended burn,
Let love dissemble in a golden shower,
Let not the winds whistle, nor the seas rave
But the treasure be lapped forever in an unbroken wave.
There is nothing that I would not offer to you,
My silken dacoit, my untranslatable,
Whether in the smug mountains counting the stars
Or crossing the gipsy's palm at the Easter fairs
With so much that is difficult to say
Before the frigid, unpeculating hours
Shall drive this foreign devil to the sea.
Read this poem in other languages
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
Comments about this poem (Offering by Kenneth Allott )
(March 26, 1874 – January 29, 1963)
(4 April 1928 - 28 May 2014)
(28 November 1757 – 12 August 1827)
(31 October 1795 – 23 February 1821)
(7 May 1861 – 7 August 1941)
(10 December 1830 – 15 May 1886)
(12 July 1904 – 23 September 1973)
Ella Wheeler Wilcox
(5 November 1850 - 30 October 1919)
(13 September 1916 – 23 November 1990)
(26 April 1564 - 23 April 1616)
- Still I Rise, Maya Angelou
- To an Athlete Dying Young, Alfred Edward Housman
- The Road Not Taken, Robert Frost
- A Song About Myself, John Keats
- Death is Nothing at All, Henry Scott Holland
- Daffodils, William Wordsworth
- I Know Why The Caged Bird Sings, Maya Angelou
- Bright Star, John Keats
- If You Forget Me, Pablo Neruda
- "Why do I love" You, Sir?, Emily Dickinson
Poem of the Day
- The Escapist, Jaipal Singh
- GOD LISTENS AND SPEAKS, Michael P. Johnson
- A Journey By Indian Train, Bijay Kant Dubey
- They die before you do., Rm.Shanmugam Chettiar.
- Witch Romance, Alexander Onoja
- The safe ground, Rm.Shanmugam Chettiar.
- Old age gripping, Rm.Shanmugam Chettiar.
- Your Warmth 2, Michael P. McParland
- The Zulu King, Margaret Alice Second
- I Love Life, Alfred Oyori