something old, something new
Quietly Jazzed
My hand glides over satin hills,
Comes to rest on the summit,
Lingers, savors, contemplates,
Forgets time and place, becomes
Lost in sensation while birdsong
Whispers without, breeze chants
In harmony, surf acts the metronome.
I wonder if Professor Eliot will scold me for this romanticism.
He’ll say the form is haphazard.
He’ll ask what meter I’m using, and why.
There is patience, there is impatience.
My hand that is still cannot be still.
The summit rises and falls, sounds
Fall away until there is only the rush
Of breath, the intake, the exhalation,
The intake, the halt, the exhalation,
A rhythm beat in syncopation.
At least the conceit isn’t strained.
He’ll say it’s time worn.
He may like the aesthetic distance.
He may not.
Autumn sun falls seaward, falls away
To dusk, to night, gives way to moonlight,
Soft light revealing satin devoid of color,
But rich in shades of grey. Outside—
A hint of cool. Inside—no, what was
Temperate is no longer so. No, what
Was steady heartbeat is no longer so.
He may concede the dashes work well.
What is felt is given, what is given is felt.
Richness flows, an inland stream
laced with salt, delta bound, pulled
by this half-moon tide, pulled, willed,
incanted by the song, the breeze, the surf.
In all there is softness, gentleness.
Half-light, last-light, gives way to love.
He’ll have me read Piers Plowman.
I’ll tell him I’ve been reading Sappho.
Poetry by one trick pony
Read 857 times
Written on 2015-11-03 at 21:03
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