Beach, 1737
Martin SEYMOUR-SMITH
Beach, poetical Wrexham wine-merchant, Your Eugenio was unremembered (Despite the dedication to Pope,
The kindly letter from Jonathan Swift) From the day it appeared, until this moment. That year, you cut your throat, suffering From a 'terrible disorder of the head': But doubtless you knew a fine rescuing Margoose Before madness finally had you dead.
Hero, now, of one man's melancholy day: For you I sheath and dispose the keen carver, Shut all scissors dangerously open, Coil and neatly tie the hanging rope, Begging that if darkness must press on me And serenity quite withdraw its gift, shall lie still, and not become madder— Rising frenetically up to reach For knives I have so quietly put away.
Or rushing to dance in the tempting noose.
But your death has its victory, Beach : Who can be sure if the bladed sliver Not yet smashed out of his perfect windscreen, The high step crumbling on his sturdy ladder, The death-claw in his excellent machine, Are not secret wishes, sharply to end A peace that sanities merely pretend?
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