written by: Jim Bellamy
The poet imagines a forest of moments:
Some other world besides
The wheelings of the stars
Is here subverting into sky.
Through the closed window, trees
Groove and move nearer, as,
Growing deeper with receptivity,
The poet marks a morass
On the green shield of His paper.
No-one comes, nor any shyness
Roams, as time trips suddenly down
And round the lithe
Ravelling of the verbal aether. So,
Day after day it is the fierce act
Of writing words that fly
The rapiers under Contact
And the green shields under thumb.
The poet writes; so to does His demesne;
Thus turns the bitterness of the Ink
Into something above the dreamed.
The world is shamed by this meter?
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