Willaim Shakespeare [1564-1616]
Their comfort comes from stations on the bank
Of all great rivers—their trubutaries, benchmarks, watersheds
And monuments to past and present zeitgeists; their glories led
By strange humility in masters whose histories are blank
About whom generations cavil and invoke
In lesser moments of a meaner age that lean toward
More prosaïc goals, gilded frames made equal to the framed to ward
Off periodic national stagnation in swarms as guilds of artisans. They must evoke
A wonder in the people that makes them wondrous and close upon an awe
Amongst the gods. In the end such suns disperse such light
As cannot be masked nor can the transitory might
Of kings suppress such eagles, neither nets nor censors, nor the law.
And here lies Shakespeare, Father of the modern text in torrents at the summit
Of tongues that roar so loud and thunder in the index. A moment, then, when
Pausing in the atrium, the job is done, and there’s no real choice
But rest and calibrate the immediate that cannot last; tasks, last of many, voiced
Throughout years of waste and work will one day send
A massive missive of relief, the wages of a single flaw with thanks
To weighty sentiments and fond farewells with perhaps a single sequel; cheer
And weathered pride allied to see me on beyond, and further than fear
To take a few steps–arrogantly, yes, perhaps–fresh tracks on paths that rank
Above all present trumps and peculiars of this earth:
I have the fewer moments through to the end,. Yes, I know
And will it so or else the hours devour the weekly flow
Of days and nights to prove life’s lavas’ heat and light have spent their worth.
Yes, again, and what of miseries in days beyond this present strife,
Born within the darkness of the first, the energies of the present, laced with beauties far beyond the simple dénouement and all heroïc gestures seen here
but dimly in the mirror of the diamond prism of that third and better life?
Posted in Affirmation, Anagnorisis, Another lifetime, calligraphy, Genious, Imagery, Imagism, Lyric Poetry, Poem, Poetry, Sonnet, William Shakespear [1564-1616]
Prophecies remain, lingering fingers in the sky;
Graces once appointed, enjoin visions open toward transitions
Sealed in stars, joys in recess, and intercises. Fixed horizons—juxtapositions
Notwithstanding—reveal what must change while what meets the eye
Is never what it seems to Gaea’s minions while all that rests
Within the heart is changeless. Proffered predictions
Rest so very little on what is even less. Present presumptions
Rise to surface as the dross addressed as judicial guesses, the ever second-best
In crucibles of what must be meet and seemly, enjoyed and preferred
In all sardonic human folly. Surely, victory
Awaits its day if hyperbole loosed wildly within the metaphor is contradictory
And humours meld in reading all this and more in signs. Imbalances are cured
Through judicious ointments in unholy unction and fatuous appointments
Of station realized in any given concert with only minor disappointment.
“Well, After All, They’re Only Words”
Well, after all, they’re only words and phrases
From the well, some temporary divinity; let down the pail, the bucket,
Draw deeply from within and mark it. Once spoken, market
Nothing; simply drink from traces of the sometime sun’s last rays;
Imbibe—the stray whether evanescent frog or sunbeam leaves a simple footprint
On the mud and then is gone. Early spring-burst frosts melt
To slicks of foam atop a recent wave, the fluff slips by in any season; pelts
And scraps of leather, yes benign, perhaps, but ripped from memory and spirit
Never mind the distance. Read between the breath of syllables and nothing
If not laughter rises to surfaces of isolated brooks:
Pride of glance and silence breed tedium while strolling. Take another look
And read the book, breach another fable on the table with the morning stuffing From the mailbox; assonance and consonance or possibly a simple rhyme
Is passage to eternity and all that matters is the energy to make it home on time.
Spiral notions, springs of natural seconds, tiny buds
Aligned with all the other benchmark orbs
And gentle points of sweeping preference; symmetry absorbs
The oddity of growth in arbitrary minutes: the muds
Decree, the hills agree, and we—the infinite in sands and random beaches,
Numberless and unadorned—abstract from solid concretes
Limpid liquids recreating mysteries in pliant canyons, sculpting palaces; discrete
Particles muster in so brief a span as now to be as one in crystal; breaches
Poured pure in granite veins that must in time allow the light to pass on through.
And as we stand disarmed in deft amazement, thrice bereft, we ponder
Circumspect the natural majesties that form the ruby and the emerald, wander
Through tailings left by mystic mines in sapphire clouds, the dusts of spectacle Far beyond the common cosmic statutes, limitations seen by carbon-dated eyes
When all arrives or nothing comes to mind but our own sweet surprise.
Posted in Aging, Imagery, Imagism, Lyric Poetry, Poem, Poetry, Samsara, Sonnet, Sonnets
Tagged Immortality, Lyric Poetry, Mortality, Sonnet, Sonnets
“There Is No In Between”
There is no in between the rooms but walls, no commonplace,
No misinterpolated stipend wrought from mass dissatisfaction, snags
That cannot be ignored. Bruises in subjunctive rags,
Something in the well of “just beyond” that leaves a bitter taste
In brew in apposition to a mass that yearns for transformations that as yet
Cannot be apprised. Still astride, return
To where it all began, a blister-burn,
A meal gone wrong despite prodigious preparation set
Aside because she stayed too long that night.
And when the hour’s flower foundered, their energies went far
Beyond the call to matter: purpose marred,
It withered on the table as Lot’s wife turns back once more in flight
To savour curiosity’s distractions, scattered random rays
Of what were after all but rainbows in the retinue of space.
“You Can Leave”
You can leave … the keys on the table, lady, and reconnoitre this:
Admit it; you’re not all that happy. You’ll not
Be satisfied with second best, some sweet nothing caught
Within the weave of yesterday’s innocuous public lazzis
And travesties a cut above the woven wisdoms of the Grey-Eyed Goddess.
She may serve both. So why’d you want to go and do a thing like that?
Did you really hope for more? Think a while; splice the fat
Honed from all these bones, and what remains? Take another guess,
And pull a press conference, another holy bolo punch; the problem’s not
Some newfound strength in fashion or the passion of decision to look alive;
You’ll take up arms to win the gold, perhaps, you’ll join the queue of fantasies, in diatribes and patent bold-faced lies.
The problem’s not with you but what’s not written on the page; within this cage,
that specious minuend within the cave wherein you may well marinate and rot.
We’re on a Ferris wheel together for the duration till the long hot winter’s thaw;
So, give the subtrahend another turn, short your losses and call the bout a draw.
Posted in Age, Imagism, Lyric Poetry, Poem, Poetry, Samsara, Sonnet
Tagged Lyric Poetry, Relationships, Samsara, Sonnet, Sonnets