After the Holiday

The poet stumbles from his weekend bed like a vanquished knight staggering blindly in the drifting dust of a jousting field. Tongue heavy as chain-mail. Bones of creaking, battered and rusting metal. The scolding screams of florid peasantry fly across littered lanes and through ragged, windswept pavilions: "Hey poet," they shriek, "Get a bloody move on!"
It was ever thus. Will we never be set free. And where is that damn lazy Lady of Shallot with my effing breakfast.

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[Edward Williams]

The poet of whom you, possibly, speak, speaks from: THE FATED WARRIOR (pg 7)

"During that period of mid-morning dreams,
I excavated the future deeply, saw hobbling
Toward me various hybrid beings, people
From the limpid life of unsolved tensions,
People in families of old, combinational
people too, wandering in dim scenes--
And saw landscapes . . . severed from use.
I forgot about the telephone, went back in
Speculative history when it was not invented,
And stared at the cord disconnected under
The chair, below the drifting mirror on the wall.
I couldn't eat anything, no turkey sandwiches,
Everything tasted too stale in my mouth.
And the bedsheets pulled me down like
A fish seeking rest in deeper waters. People
Who were out there, in lives I left them in,
Failed to call me up, or knock down the door,
Or filter in like in times past, psychologically.
During that winter I siphoned into sleep their
Whole being, it was a vacation during which
I was tremendously sad . . ."

(this poem goes on a long time)