Here you will find the Poem Ragnarok of poet Kenneth Allott
Our Trojan world is polarised to mourn; To dream and find a black spot on the sun, And wake to love and find our lover gone. The destination of any weapon is grief. In homesteads now where joy must seem naive Under a splitting sky our women conceive. The towns of houses, massed security Out-generalled by a later century, Are hearse-plumes on an old economy. The ache of crushed walls when the raid is over. This is a house, we said, we have built forever: A two-backed fool, thinking of one day's weather. Only one monster has to love his error. Only his wrangling heart cannot recover, But glories in illusion when half cadaver; Or likes being ill, or nurses grievances, Or calls a mountain or a forest 'his', Or quarrels in five hundred languages. And man, erect, unvenerable, A bloodshot eye so simply vulnerable That half his history is marginal, Incises stone in the Bastille of hate: 'Give us this day before it is too late Something to love indeed, enough to eat.'
