Thanks to Katy Evans Bush for reminding me it is Oscar Wilde's birthday. And it was a photo Katy put on her blog, of Wilde's gravestone showered with lipsticked kisses (as in the photo above), along with an interview I later read with Merlin Holland (from which the quote below is taken), that prompted the sonnet I've posted here. As of December last year they have erected a glass screen around Wilde's grave to prevent his fans' defacement/adornment.
Oscar’s
Grave
It is touching that
they remember him with such affection.
But on the other hand
it is really tiresome – Merlin Holland
Scrub off those lipstick kisses
pressed
on the pale stone
and
they’ll return, shades
of
pink, terracotta, snail grey.
Would
he have blanched, haunted
by
atrocious wallpaper?
Or
seen the outline, an illustration
for
some story he might ––
if
he could gather his thought:
a
prince whose elegant name
deserted
him, having stolen
the
life he should have lived
and
the death also, eyelids
breathed on, kissed closed.
[photographer unknown]
[photographer unknown]
