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Microcosm
Think one new thought and
miniscule worlds shift,
and the teeming, untiring architecture
beneath the visible responds like a
supporting actor in this ravishing,
unholy and fabulous drama where
particles mirror the known
and the unknown vastness,
even the spiral template of all creation.
If we could see it,
we would tremble.
We, who are microscopic to the lordly cosmos,
yet just as vital,
irreplaceable,
don't know our worth, but the Architect
knows and Architect feels every
rasping fit of the catydid, every green
thing tinged with playful versions of gold
like the van Gogh yellow hitting a high
note in the garden while under, way under,
it all, terrifying galaxies live subatomic lives—
the smallest, silent thunder that creates us.
In the quantum land we're here and then not here—
we're solid wonders, then something else . . .
and never-ending.
Soon the moon will slither out of the trees
and my heart will crack and disperse, and that's good,
because the open heart knows what God is,
and I'll finally believe,
without scoffing, that we are imagined and
adored into existence by something capable
of ungraspable goodness.
The moon has arrived and
I'm devastated.
Now I know.
Patricia Joan Jones
Just loving how architecture
Just loving how architecture is modified as "untiring" that no matter how ancient it may be, as long as it is standing, and more so in the stillness of night becomes an ever fresh testament to its builder and designer. And Van Gogh yellow is a superb homage to probably my most esteemed artist of any discipline or field of artistry. A slithering moon is an image that enunciates motion of ungraspable goodness! Reading this poem in keeping with its inimitable parts brings an exquisite devastation. Lovely almost beyond words.
here is poetry that doesn't always conform
galateus, arkayye, arqios,arquious, crypticbard, excalibard, wordweaver
Coming from a sculptor of
Coming from a sculptor of dazzling word art, your breathtaking review is something I'll be reveling in for a while. Thank you for perceiving my vision with such precision and insight. Endless gratitude.
As soon as I read this poem,
As soon as I read this poem, I began to wonder how to adequately summarize your poetic achievement, and how to set such a summary in verse.
Theology / Cosmology / Philosophy / and Astronomy / converge together when summoned by your Poetry.
I will post this later to my own site as a poem, but I sincerely believe that it summarizes your great literary acomplishment here, and I also believe that this poem encapsulizes that accomplishment. The range of your verse, across all your poems, is stated in this poem: "terrifying galaxies live subatomic lives." You also describe creation in terms that, I sincerely think, would be applauded by the Apostle Saint John (the Poet among the Twelve, to whose literary tradition you definitely belong): ". . . imagined and / adored into existence by something capable / of ungraspable goodness."
This poem is like a honeycomb, with four flavors of honey; or a tapestry, with threads of four colors: theology, cosmology, astronomy and philosophy---and the profound skill of your Poetry gathers them together---distills, mixes and ballances them---and then bestows the finished artistry on your readers here at postpoems.
Our---that is, the United States'---two great outer space telescopes, the Hubble and the James Webb give us glimpses of deep space that we would never, without them, have acquired. You do the same with your poems (and at no expense to NASA or the American taxpayers), but with one distinct difference. The Hubble and Webb cannot explain the images they deliver. But your Poems explain the meaning of what they describe. I happen to believe that humanity is alone in the Universe---which, if true, is not cause for arrogance but for accepting and growing up and into an awesome responsibility: to tell the Cosmos about itself, the way our own souls explain, or attempt to explain, our existences to ourselves. Poets have the chiefest role, and the heaviest portion, of this responsibility. Since the Alexandrian Poets, during the Ptolemaic dynasty in Egypt, first set forth the proposition that Poetry had more of a function than merely telling of the fall of Troy, or the voyage of the Argo: it had a function of setting forth both spiritual and material truths. You have not only inherited that mantle: you also wear it as if it had been designed especially for you. Each of your individual poems are fully functional units; yet, like instruments of an orchestra, or colors on a painter's palette, or chips in a computer, they are also part of a greater array that also has its own function. And you demonstrate this self-evident truth each time you post one of your magnificent poems . . . like this one.
J-Called
"Thank you" doesn't cut it.
"Thank you" doesn't cut it. Your spontaneous, impeccably expressed poem of appreciation is more than I ever expected and everything I need to stay motivated.
Your review brilliantly distills my message and purpose to its very essence, and this means more to me than you'll ever know in this lifetime. I cherish every word.
Simply speechless.