"scop" poems
He closes his eyes as usual. That starts it.
Gallon blackness against thin skin but split,
Suffused with a million rushed and serene
Shades of purple and sickly, retinal green.
Squares and curves, utterly vertical rounds
Imprinted obsidian spheres, half-sounds.
A vague intimation of abyssal, milk white:
Horizontal paradigms on the coast of sight.
Yes, indeed the whiteness on the horizon
Flutters scop-musical like a lark’s blazon.
How it snatches up the blackness, losing
Clarity of its edge like madmen’s choosing.
It ceases growing yet consumes all within
The poor man’s eyes, traversing the din.
A pure, blank line that is born in the mind
Fills the soul nacreous, leaves him behind.
Goes it beyond him and stretches open.
Straight wide. Too wide. Much too wide!
The teeth he hadn’t noticed crush him dog-brightly
And pull him fast inside.
He opens his eyes as usual. That ends it.
May 18, 2010
May 18, 2010 at 11:21 AM UTC
I once fell in love with a scop
Who sang to me of traditional heroes.
And when his voice dropped,
I knew he was only temporary.
And when he danced,
My eyes danced with him.
And when his legs stopped,
I knew his time was dim.
And when he read to me,
My dreams took control.
And when his narration took flee,
I awoke and he had gone.
Falling in love with a man of rhyme
Can only conclude with melancholy
For his stories contain a happy ending,
But relating to true life, they are pure folly.
Jul 7, 2010
Jul 7, 2010 at 4:16 PM UTC