Sol Poem by Simon Barraclough

Et ellu é bellu e radiante cun grande splendore
—St. Francis of Assisi, Cantico delle creature

I heard of one who thought himself too much i'the Sun.
I had to laugh. And blast a billion lethal particles
across your path. You say you want your place in the Sun,
so be it, but know that I am Heaven and Hell in one,
your saintly haloes and your branding tongs,
an inquisition which no atom can resist,
a thirteen million Kelvin kiss. I must admit
I'm one that loved not wisely but too well.

Consider my poor off sprung offspring:
there's one that's just been taken into care;
two cold and gassy monsters so remote they never think
of picking up the phone or sending me a probe;
a starlet sucking up my limelight, barring me from all her shows;
a bully bending comets on his knee and tossing them my way;
a red-faced tin pot despot sulking in his rot;
a hellish vixen boiling off each residue of love;
an iron bullet—kryptonite to any star—poised above my heart.

But here she comes: my one success, the fertile fluke,
dreaming in her just-right, just-so bed,
her arm thrown back across her brow.
I mustn't get too close. I mustn't be so ardent.
I'll learn to keep my distance, for now.