“The Cells”

“The Cells”

The cells call out their scholarity,
Mighty spires reach for skies
That live seasons in the earth’s penumbra and expire
Forever, so they say. Turn, then, to odd peculiarity,
Particulars in ornate stone formations possibly deliberate
When once they housed a single evening’s temple
Built by want and ignorance of what is simple,
Worshipped by multitudes within, immediate
To some, an intimacy of bodies petrified
And sprung from some light’s supple
Flight that had a need for nuptials–
She, the goddess; he, the priest. So sanctified,
They possessed a night that launched a myriad cliffs
And in that blackest of shadows, its oceans shifted.


“The poem… is a little myth of man’s capacity to make life meaningful. And in the end, the poem is not a thing we see – it is, rather, a light by which we may see – and what we see is life.”

~Robert Penn Warren
[April 24, 1905—September 15, 1989]

2 responses to ““The Cells”

  1. a poem is a small indication to how ones mind can tweak a word here and there and voila’ … nothing is as it seems … Pen … x

  2. Yes; the older I get the more wonder I have at the sheer powers of distraction from purpose and achievement due almost fully to the constant flow or words and by extension other words; images that lead so easily to other images; the equivalent to spilling milk or even breaking the glass on the way across the room simply because my fingers were not up to the challenge in spite of whatever I imagined was mind for the taking balanced almost miraculously with successes and blessings that were just as “accidental.” There are always accidents, of course, but beyond this, there is the apparently divine aspect of being in this world with human minds so evenly weighted and weighed with the purely material aspects of the same….

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