A Dining Room with Keyboard Music
The fourteen months or so that Rimbaud spent
In London aren’t enough to make the claim
That he was England’s modern man who went
To places other poets couldn’t name.
Verlaine was pushing boundaries, too, in lines,
But his modernity is overlooked
By those who focus only on drugged wines
That Arthur spilled on the table they’d booked
In poetry’s white-linen restaurant.
Verlaine’s productions were as beautiful
And delicate as Rimbaud’s were a taunt
At everything crystal and dutiful.
Paul crafted lyrics pianissimo.
Arthur banged out, “FUCK YOU!” fortissimo.