A poem for Oscar Wilde.

The first Oscar is the person
That people think he is.
The smart arse homosexual,
Ready with quickest quip.
Mixing with the glitterati
Of the fin de siecle,
A dandified lecherous queen,
Sporting carnation green.

Next we spy another Oscar,
The one he really is.
Hardworking diligent artist,
Birthing art for arts sake.
Believing aesthetic beauty,
Valuable above all,
Searching so hard, trying to find
A saviour for mankind.

The final picture of Oscar,
One he wanted to be,
Forever young, in his heyday,
Living riotously,
No care about morality.
Indulging all pleasure
Plucked ripe from a nihilistic tree,
Always being set free.

Desire seldom is reality,
Poor Oscar, rarely free,
To fulfil all his fantasy,
Is two, not one, nor three.

Harry Rogers, Frog House, Deptford, 25th May 2017.


Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s