03-06-2014, 12:18 PM
Yes, another stolen form. I stole it from Paul Valery's "Song Of the Columns". Very tough, excruciatingly difficult form to work within. I guess I'm an aesthetic masochist.
Anyway...just a feeble poetic attempt to express the ecstatic religious experience in action. Yes, I wink at Shelley at one point. I love his talent. The Jimi Hendrix of poetry. And just because I always leave so much explaining out, the moon is a natural Eucharist, and the poem is the eating of that "silver host", metaphorically speaking, that commingling of the natural and divine into some f*cking crazy relational experience. Or at least that's what I was trying to do (silly me). lol Poetry is fun, fun, fun (except when it's not).
DELIRIUM
Mystic moon, silver host
Shimmering on the sea
Lure me to innermost
Tangled complicity.
Hold me in your knowing,
Redeem me through your art,
Fill to overflowing
The motive in my heart…
Savoring sensations,
Spell of an endless dome,
Twinkling evocations:
Imagination's home.
Arbiter of distance,
Magician in the mind
Summon from existence
Mere consciousness in time.
Timeless aberration,
Abstract affinity,
Seamless correlation
Exuberant to be.
Glory be earth's delight,
Blessed the primal spark
Wild for the skyward flight,
Aria of the lark…
Stream through the dogged urge
Like truths as welcomed guests,
Burn in the stricken words
Defenselessly expressed,
Cleanse the inherent wrath,
Release a valiant trust,
Light an immortal path
Through streets of bones and dust…
Demon of indifference,
Intimate irony
Fixed upon your essence
Pure possibility
Ushering in the fear
Crowding a lonely thought:
No image will appear
To justify your plot.
Sting of the perfect hate,
Emasculate despair,
A fragment of your fate
In awe of what you bear:
Death and grief, time's bequeath,
Beauty's resonant cry
For the love dared beneath
A blazing golden eye…
Empire of survival
History's episode
Lost in your arrival
Deciphering your code.
Cradle of departing,
Ghost in the silent tomb
Patiently imparting
Hope for the weaver's loom.
Soul of the all within,
Delicate mutation
Straining to shed its skin,
Bloom in clear relation.
When-how-where will it cease,
Flavor its final crumb
With its own unending peace
For its own delirium
Anyway...just a feeble poetic attempt to express the ecstatic religious experience in action. Yes, I wink at Shelley at one point. I love his talent. The Jimi Hendrix of poetry. And just because I always leave so much explaining out, the moon is a natural Eucharist, and the poem is the eating of that "silver host", metaphorically speaking, that commingling of the natural and divine into some f*cking crazy relational experience. Or at least that's what I was trying to do (silly me). lol Poetry is fun, fun, fun (except when it's not).
DELIRIUM
Mystic moon, silver host
Shimmering on the sea
Lure me to innermost
Tangled complicity.
Hold me in your knowing,
Redeem me through your art,
Fill to overflowing
The motive in my heart…
Savoring sensations,
Spell of an endless dome,
Twinkling evocations:
Imagination's home.
Arbiter of distance,
Magician in the mind
Summon from existence
Mere consciousness in time.
Timeless aberration,
Abstract affinity,
Seamless correlation
Exuberant to be.
Glory be earth's delight,
Blessed the primal spark
Wild for the skyward flight,
Aria of the lark…
Stream through the dogged urge
Like truths as welcomed guests,
Burn in the stricken words
Defenselessly expressed,
Cleanse the inherent wrath,
Release a valiant trust,
Light an immortal path
Through streets of bones and dust…
Demon of indifference,
Intimate irony
Fixed upon your essence
Pure possibility
Ushering in the fear
Crowding a lonely thought:
No image will appear
To justify your plot.
Sting of the perfect hate,
Emasculate despair,
A fragment of your fate
In awe of what you bear:
Death and grief, time's bequeath,
Beauty's resonant cry
For the love dared beneath
A blazing golden eye…
Empire of survival
History's episode
Lost in your arrival
Deciphering your code.
Cradle of departing,
Ghost in the silent tomb
Patiently imparting
Hope for the weaver's loom.
Soul of the all within,
Delicate mutation
Straining to shed its skin,
Bloom in clear relation.
When-how-where will it cease,
Flavor its final crumb
With its own unending peace
For its own delirium
You can't hate me more than I hate myself. I win.
"When the spirit of justice eloped on the wings
Of a quivering vibrato's bittersweet sting."
"When the spirit of justice eloped on the wings
Of a quivering vibrato's bittersweet sting."