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...
This post has in a sense been handed to me by two or three responses to my post On not getting it. In the course of discussing how a reade...
extract from the poem Koi by John Burnside All afternoon we've wandered from the pool to alpine beds and roses ...
It all depends, you see, how you go about it. And that I cannot tell you, for that will be dictated by you and by you knowing your friends...
A Birthday in April ~ Wordsworth Prompt from The Imaginary Garden with Real Toads (The first of three posts which will celebrate the l...
Saturday, 2 February 2008
Self portrait for a Modern Masque
The ground breaks open when the spirit wakes.
Between the spheres of Good and Good Intent
the evil that abounds is masked. All flesh lies hollow
on the watery bed, tideway of ensoulment.
From it, cool sedative to human eyes, the floral
tributes, crematorial flames arise. Like unveiled
windows at the dead of night, the eyes stare back.
Reflected gaze. One feed-back loop too far brings death
within our ken. Our inmostness and what of earth
is visible, go hand-in-hand - or marry in
a one-night stand. The eyes no longer laugh
nor cry, nor can they see except the mask
maps out the contours, marks how day and night
break-in. break-up, break-out, like breaker-ripples
on a millpond bursting at its seams. All seem
the same to those who do not wear the mask.