Oh you're all so mature and tasteful. Honesty compels me to post this gusher. I advise dark glasses and a dry vermouth while reading this early opus.
I would never write about....
i
poems are
snake dreaming in
speckles of dappled day and
dark, chanted by necromancers beneath
blank stars; invocation of unattainable
lust ennobled by chivalry, set in
lunatic landscapes of tilted
strangeness, a need
for otherness or
a benediction
on now
ii
they are
tintinnabulations of
bells in steeples, sounded
to warn, or lament; blown brazen
trumpets, reedy flutes, big drums pounded
and sparkle of xylophone’s tiny
tinkles that penetrate
broad thoughts
with sharps
of light
iii
or
menaces of
loss, lamented
before the losing,
reverence phrased according to
rules taught by ancestors, or volumes of
flood-water breaching its barriers,
hammered-copper cross inlaid
with stones disposed
punctiliously by
gnarled
hands
iv
verbal
constructions planned
minutely and connected laboriously
to confound critics who fossick around
eagerly seeking loose beams with
which to construct a plinth
for their oratory far
more significant
than a mere
poem
v
and there are misty gardens,
skies blown with frantic clouds,
sun-soaked hillsides where indolent
lovers roll and toss with devotion to more than
money; baskets of grapes, melons and peaches, foaming
tankards, crusty loaves, crumbling cheeses,
ruby glow of wine goblets
held against
light
vi
meditations
read in polyphony
by writer and reader at
different ends of the earth
intimations of immortality from
other centuries and from
silent rooms in the
house next door
consecrated
for poetry
vii
some are wishes
longed for without hope,
memories preserved with love,
buried ambitions,
the scent of
lemons.
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