Art thou pale for weariness of climbing heaven and gazing on the earth, wandering companionless among the stars that have a different birth, and ever changing, like a joyless eye that finds no object worth it's constancy? Thou chosen sister of the Spirit, that gazes on thee til in thee it pities. . . -Shelley (To The Moon)

Saturday, October 16, 2010

The Reserves I May Have In My Heart Made

When I read this line by Gerald Manley Hopkins I shuddered: "They were faithful but not rich observers of nature" Perhaps he doesn't mean to condescend, but it's not something I'd like to have said about myself. I want to be a rich observer of nature! One thing I'm certain of, regardless, is that if you are here on this page to read some poetry, I believe you are the one richly observing nature, even if it's only the faithful, poor workings of language in my mind.....

Above the image is Rouen Cathedral by Monet, to the right is Autoportrait by Tamara de Lempicka

Vicious bodycolour enclouds his chaste mind
in a room of bruised tiles. This apple,
this bee harbour, is modest,
by medievalist virtue.

Under the green
stained glass, I stand
extending lucid transmissions from my smoky heart

pursuing his black perjury

He wakes with manners,
morals, obligations
but ends it all with eternity incarnate,

a spiritual feast on tragic letters
sprawled out on tossed blue ribbon
with necessary eyes
he feasts on their exotic wine

Young birds carry me
to emotional graveyard
while he's away, seldom afraid

of my serviceable art.

Too smooth a mirror on the mantle
in confused imagery - city or cloudscape?

I perform the familiar practice of leaving him with others, happily rattling.

All who have come here,
have come to stand in the light.