first you
must imagine
a shiny poem
new born
printed
like moses between
two-pages
of bulrushes.
Somewhere in a chapbook,
peruse the scattered leaves
in some independent book seller.
Where they treated their books like
prospero’s books at the end of The Tempest.
You will find –
only the young
buy from amazon
the old
long addicted
to poetry’s
chimera-hallucinogenic-elements
of ink and paper
must touch the chapbook;
Run down the isles
with their finds
careful not to make the gaze
of all the unread
poetry books.
How dreadful
the unspoken wail of unread poetry
they snort like chained dragons
speaking fiery sonnets.
If you should go that route
be careful never gaze directly
into their burning orbs
of controlling metaphors.
Then the poet
in you will turn to stone
like the gaze of basilisk.
Claim you treason-treasure
wrap it in your burlap bag
and juggle it home
not stopping
at a kansas city fountain
to eat a couple pages--
how crisp is the book
in your messager bag.
for poetry is
a fix for lotus-eaters
that graze between the stanzas
and when you get home
you climb
into your bed
and take that mysterious chapbook
and hold it
tenderly as the moon arises
in the window
of your apartment
and read deep
as all your candles
recede toward their bases
descending
as the flickering of flame
and wax
begin to pool on candle stands.
still you read
as metaphors kiss you
like boundless winds
for the poem unfolds
before you all
its tropes
sing-like sparrows
and then its images
build new stairs
in your inward mind
as lines proceed
up the sky-stained sky of infinity…
..and still the words speak
and you must obey
and follow
until
the last page turns
and luminous ink letters
emerge
from all your
pores.
Jul 16, 2018
Jul 16, 2018 at 1:45 PM UTC
first you
must imagine
a shiny poem
new born
printed
like moses between
two-pages
of bulrushes.
Somewhere in a chapbook,
peruse the scattered leaves
in some independent book seller.
Where they treated their books like
prospero’s books at the end of The Tempest.
You will find –
only the young
buy from amazon
the old
long addicted
to poetry’s
chimera-hallucinogenic-elements
of ink and paper
must touch the chapbook;
Run down the isles
with their finds
careful not to make the gaze
of all the unread
poetry books.
How dreadful
the unspoken wail of unread poetry
they snort like chained dragons
speaking fiery sonnets.
If you should go that route
be careful never gaze directly
into their burning orbs
of controlling metaphors.
Then the poet
in you will turn to stone
like the gaze of basilisk.
Claim you treason-treasure
wrap it in your burlap bag
and juggle it home
not stopping
at a kansas city fountain
to eat a couple pages--
how crisp is the book
in your messager bag.
for poetry is
a fix for lotus-eaters
that graze between the stanzas
and when you get home
you climb
into your bed
and take that mysterious chapbook
and hold it
tenderly as the moon arises
in the window
of your apartment
and read deep
as all your candles
recede toward their bases
descending
as the flickering of flame
and wax
begin to pool on candle stands.
still you read
as metaphors kiss you
like boundless winds
for the poem unfolds
before you all
its tropes
sing-like sparrows
and then its images
build new stairs
in your inward mind
as lines proceed
up the sky-stained sky of infinity…
..and still the words speak
and you must obey
and follow
until
the last page turns
and luminous ink letters
emerge
from all your
pores.
