I decided to introduce a plan B and hold over until tomorrow the promised poem on the second teacher, the reason being the suggestion from dVerse Poets that we should break all the rules and do what is never done in the best circles (and which of us could refuse an invitation like that?) and write a poem on poetry.
in the main for commerce
or converse over fences:
can they be crafted,
forged or hammered
to new purpose to express
the eeriness of life
and all creation?
Or could we build a whatnot
from a pile of kindling wood? (The tasks
are not a million miles apart.)
Yet we are pledged to try,
from meagre scraps of words,
to craft a furniture of thought,
for we are poets who believe
that words at times work miracles -
or call them forth,
we know not how. It's on a par
for mystery with the Big Bang:
the fashioning from nothing
(almost) of the all.
And that would be enough for most
if that were all, but when we add
that nix begat infinity, almost
our vision fades. We are perplexed.
So shall we versify perplexity?
And how should that be done?
Can craft alone atone
for loss of visionary heights?
Words on their own, I find
solve fewer mysteries
than they create.
Great poems excavate
the very depths of what we call
the self - the source
of what is most mysterious.
And can the grains and streams of words,
can rays they shine upon the riddles
be set by us in the right order,
be set to replicate
the world that Nature crafts,
the genius of their genesis?
The moon petals the sea. Rose petals the sea. Stone sea. Stone petals. Rose petals of stone. Stone rising before me. Sea moves. How moves...
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