04-04-2025, 05:17 AM
I am with Percy on this one
Percy died at 29 in 1822
having buried three children
a lover
maybe dogs and cats too.
And so he knew, he knew
about the human condition,
the wandering Jew,
the layabout minstrel,
more than you.
I’m with Percy
that poetry grows on you -
fresh young saplings
become churchyard yews.
That poetry is magic.
Read on a mountain height
on snow white blanket
pages. By sages
old in song and story
seeking the flame
and some, the fame
of hermit glory.
Poetry is magic
on the lips of a tragic
Romeo. The vaulty heaven,
he says. The unleavened
bread eaten, at dawn
an unrested Mary.
There is poetry
and poetry is fraud
it indicates a god
behind the machinations.
Perhaps not too good
at public relations -
see the rapes, murders, and violence!
But in the faint traces
of perfection in the stars.
Nothing should make sense
yet here we are.
There is no magic
but in the spaces
where there’s silence.
Percy died at 29 in 1822
having buried three children
a lover
maybe dogs and cats too.
And so he knew, he knew
about the human condition,
the wandering Jew,
the layabout minstrel,
more than you.
I’m with Percy
that poetry grows on you -
fresh young saplings
become churchyard yews.
That poetry is magic.
Read on a mountain height
on snow white blanket
pages. By sages
old in song and story
seeking the flame
and some, the fame
of hermit glory.
Poetry is magic
on the lips of a tragic
Romeo. The vaulty heaven,
he says. The unleavened
bread eaten, at dawn
an unrested Mary.
There is poetry
and poetry is fraud
it indicates a god
behind the machinations.
Perhaps not too good
at public relations -
see the rapes, murders, and violence!
But in the faint traces
of perfection in the stars.
Nothing should make sense
yet here we are.
There is no magic
but in the spaces
where there’s silence.