Intoxicated by your silky swish

 

Ever my love grows

from

that salty, starlit sky

 

And there, somewhere

between

that silky sky and earth

we merge

 

Our frosted dew-drops

drip,

and melt from heaven

 

As we sail and sail

upon

the mercy of the wind

 

Like tiny newborn spiders

tethered

to gossamer

 

Floating high, high

in

the atmosphere

 

Where the first beams of sunlight

dance

across our dappled souls

 

As we leave the verdant green

of earth’s naivety

to tap, upon the gates of heaven

 

And sigh, in the misty shadows

as angels

throw the gates wide open

 

Intoxicated, by the silky swish

of

your fragrant bloom

 

 

~/~

 

 

 

Author's Notes/Comments: 
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J-C4113d's picture

Wow!  Let me pause to take a

Wow!  Let me pause to take a breath . . . if I can catch my breath after reading this manificent poem.  Only a few Poets, most of them here on Postpoems, can affect me in this way.  And if I am not able to catch my breath, I am going to send you an invoice for its replacement, lol.


Here is the metaphor, by which I am going to try to describe what this Poem does.  I saw a music video in which the Dublin Philharmonic Orchestra was performing the first movement of my very favorite symphony, Dvorak's Ninth, Aus Der Neuen Welt.  As the melody approach its completion, the various instruments are playing vigorously, each one following its own process, but the sum total of that process is Dvorak's most masterful composition.  This poem works the same way:  there are many processes going on, being observed by the speaker's consciousness, and while each process could be a singular incident, the gathering of them in a single poem orchestrates them to the point where the sum of them is the poem, the plurality of them become the singularity of the poem.  On a large scale, this kind of artistry leads to epics---I think of Vergil, primarily.  But the size of the poem ultimately is no indicator of its poetic strength and meaning.  Terms and labels ultimately are no indication of those things, either.  All that matters is the effect of the poem on its reader, and this poem succeeds . . . magnificently, triumphantly, and consistently.  Most poems are meteorizes that flash across the sky in a streak and then fall to earth and sputter out.  But some poems are like stars---able to produce such a powerful effect that their light can cross hundreds, sometimes thousands, of light years to reach us.  This poem is like those stars.


J-Called