On the Rubbish Heap of Time . . .
The one he loved the most was Charles Lascelles.
We have to take Brooke’s word for it that he
Was beautiful. As Rugby tower bells
Rang out the hours, a passion rhymed with glee
Pumped hard inside the future poet, hard
Inside like bell tongues that had learned to swell
Much more than sound, like anthems that bombard
A heart expanded with love’s holy spell
As anchorites accept the vision they
Can see upon the altar. Charlie filled
That view, an icon that could make Brooke pray
To, hoping for returned devotion thrilled
With Rupert. Images of Charles are lost.
We guess, but Charles’s beauty has been tossed.
. . . and Eternity
We know, though, that a photograph of Charles
Was kept by Rupert in his Cambridge rooms.
That’s it. Otherwise, cold ignorance snarls
At our pathetic wish to know. Blue fumes
As see-through as the scents from wicks are less
Than what exists of images of him. One scholar thinks
That one house-photo guy is Charles. A guess
Is all that is. History mocks and winks,
A callous god, as callous as the god
Of love, love tortured Rupert with his crush
On Charles who alone was never awed
By Rupert. Other boys were turned to mush
By Brooke. His beauty was extreme, but , no,
Lascelles was Rupert’s source of crossed-arms woe.
~ Phillip Whidden