Poetry is a mask in reverse
created from just a mere spark
bringing to light
who we really are
out of the depths of the dark
Despite ourselves
we try to hide
in the realms of our daily lives
and then poetry's
visceral therapy
weaves magic spells
from our fingers
right out
of our minds
Suddenly, there is no choice
but to allow those masks
to be dropped
like a sudden change of fancy
at a medieval ball:
Naked eyes for coverings
are swapped
Yes…the command is given
ornate masks slip
with a splat upon
the floor
Suddenly, all dancers look
upon each other's faces
discovering treasures
they knew not before
Pregnant silence reigns
and only then
does the true dance begin
in bransles' or corantos' countered moves,
a new quiet
drowns out the din
Let it commence!
in festive air,
all attempts to hide
are in vain
Subtextual glances
and heady music
create sensual tension
profane
The wine is flowing
smiles glowing
and soon release will
bear fruit
as the dance is danced
without inhibition
and all pretenses
start to uproot
And so it is
in poetry…
All those masks
are thrown down
the words just
trip
from beyond our lips
making magic
from adjectives and nouns
Now, our words drip upon the paper
revealing the secrets divine
our souls are coaxed out from the layers
melting your
sparkling poets' hearts
into mine
BTW a bransle and coranto are examples of traditional medieval line dances
