“Answers in the Tea-leaves”
Answers in the tea-leaves, sheaves appear before the harvest
Is gathered; there within the dross, a silence brewed to solution.
Questions, masked, bitters in the waters provide ablutions
To the tongue; dissolved, a saviour moot with which to invest
In what must come when coincidence and will are spent.
And what of proceeds, pensions, dubious transactions
Boxed and packaged in the cards, admiring factions
That succumb to givens in the numbers of the deck? The rent
Is paid, the covenants lapsed, and here again,
The possibilities drown within themselves! When Vonnegut died
There came a deadly pause and then applause (denied
Of course, but heard!) from every semi-colon on the plains
of every page. “Just so,” the concourse wails, “What will you write?”
“With what ink,”‘s the reply, “and with which nib,
… and who’s the audience tonight?”
“So Easy to Desire”
So easy to desire these miracles. But think
On this! Where’s the catch? the marvellous sleep
That comes to mind? what promises can keep?
What tests in time the price in days to come? These drink
To fortune, progress, and better days; these Sadducees of success
Attract millennia condensed within a briefer purse of seams
And hedges, hems round all for whom and what dreams
Of self and eternity? Beauty;s forplay and something’s earned but divine redress
Requires questions in the hours to come, those latter thoughts of distress
And wonder on some encounter in the looming longest night of nothingness,
Nemesis in paeans, time and endless waiting; rhymes are stress
Enough! these poesies and all that scansion in between lie flat, a wilderness
Of costs in hasty elevation of hymns that breathe the urge to to right a wrong
While in the time it takes to read this ode, its pen is dead and gone…
…la plume de ma tante, indeed!
…art by Nick McKnight…
Posted in Age, Aging, Imagery, Imagism, Lyric Poetry, Poetry, Samsara, Sonnet
Tagged Age, Aging, Death, Dreams, Emotion, End Times, Existence, Immortality, Lyric Poetry, Mortality, Patience, poetry, Relationships, Sonnet, Tragic Flaw, Writing
…by Oscar Wilde [1854-1900]
A great poet,
a really great poet,
is the most unpoetical of creatures.
But inferior poets
are absolutely fascinating.
The worse their rhymes,
the more picturesque they look.
The mere fact of having published a book of
make a man quite irresistible.
He lives the poetry he cannot write.
write the poetry that they dare not realise.