If Poetry Could Take A Form

I.       Antiphon

There comes a point in time, when man must accept his limitations, and proceed to take one step before the next, over mortal boundaries, unto sacred earth.

Saturn watched

Paradox of one

Ra gazed

Incandescence unto one

Mercury observed

Confection baked for one

Hypnagogic ambience was but a vale away

When a Psychopomp gestured capaciously

Amaurotic visions darkened blur.

Grew typhlotic as distance stirred

Cays of dryads peak to view

As a Simurgh came to me,

Instructing I wake,

Believing what’s felt despite unseen

A merger, spanning time and space,

Unearthed wonder, as an angel

Saw a gateway to Utopia,

Deep beneath the flaws and scars

Every word, every page

The emotions, the tides

Shifting shape and size

Disbelief dragged its chain

But a pinch gently reminded

Of the reality in possibilities

Astonished, stunned

That reciprocation was alive,

That the first words of chapters new,

Had been scribed; are focusing

Yet fear—

Reincarnates failures past,

Doubt—

Reinforces each my lacks

Pessimism—

That words so real

Must have been spoken

Erroneously still

Yet,

This is when

Garuda came

And spoke to me

Of you.

II. Concomitance

Is it possible for the purities of spirit to instinctively demand, those unlikely origins to isochronally clasp each the other apparition by their hand?

Can the synchronal ideations be cast aside, as simply the spawn of chance and eyes?

Or can a case for fate be made, where kismet is positioned as a postulate, therefore enabling dissemination’s spread, promulgating providential bliss?

III.    Elusory of Preallusion

Divinity’s dominion, sovereign’s soul, dictates prescience as the commodities of pagan pageantry.  Yet, as I’ve always pondered, how one can blindly agree to things they cannot know.  How can one discard the possibility of oracles?  I believe in us all, lays dormant, a sense of the mystical, in which the governance is only as limiting as the mind will permit upon its own capacity.  Everyone experiences scenarios, scenes, where definition will not suffice, where explanation is as impossible to describe. 

Leading towards my own awakening,

I began to see, something positive

Should arrive, through the poetical

side of self.  A premonition, prior to 

those initial words, instructed that

circumstance will alter and happiness

shall return, to covet me completely.

And so the creation of the poetical psyche was born

An infinite quester was upon a search, for the elusive grail of verse.  Directionless it wandered, dimensions vast and wide, spreading declarations of imagery, to any and all who would listen, yet still, even after its voice grew heard, emptiness pervaded verb.  Wander more the spirit would, until through thoroughfare its feet would arrive, upon a palace, where the electricity of the flesh, sparked, as if this feeling it had never lost.  Alive it grew, understood the premonition, perhaps was not for inspiring the happiness of others, but for a joy to burgeon back within.

Hours would be spent, in contemplation of each term, the puzzles that the mind creates, the ideology of mystic space.  Soon thereafter the psyche knew, it no longer had to stifle muse, and like its favorite pet, the phoenix of the sky, the psyche fell that night, purged of all it held to know, the form once taken grew ablaze, and quickly each flame was snuffed to grave.  But for a moment, formless-in void, the spirit was reborn; now limitless is the extent of its poetry.

Time would blur the days from day, the hours from hour, the minutes away.  Eventually it knew what must be done, it must thank his muse, his source of inspiration.  And so, this is, exactly what the psyche did.  Yet, little did it know back then, the inspiration would become its friend, and teach together each they would, of the every possibility in life through verse.

Sand would sift, as it does, yet, one must wonder, where the course preplanned, would direct.  Reading pages from each corner the world, the psyche learned much, understood in ways it had since forgot.  Yet in the palace he would see, words distinct, as if each was patterned directly from the breath it breathed.  It wouldn’t walk too far the plank, yet to acknowledge such would be to take, a piece away, from his belief in poetry.  But he’d learn, his imagination, was in tune.

Now everyday the psyche floats on air.  Seeing signs spring from everywhere.  On packages of chocolate bars, atop an old poster for a Jodi Foster film, from a man, calling to his daughter, misbehaving, in the grocery lane, to a scary movie star, it now only sees its muse face.  But strange as it may seem, in play of words, no longer does it see her there, instead it rearranges each word round, and in subtle combinations of space and sound, it now sees itself as within found.

IV.  Every Good Play, Must Have A Song

Ivory keys turn in note; sparkling symphonic tones it wrote, higher than a cloud above, the music stirs emotive flow:

I’d like to wear you like a talisman

To keep me safe from harm

Hold you to my heart

Listen as the words sway

To elocution’s presence found

I’d like to hide you in an amulet

Protect me from myself

Hold you, upon my heart

As the hours sift along

To that lonely spot,

But with you near,

This distortion,

Will never reappear

I want to wear you like agate

And fall asleep within your milky gaze

While your chalcedonic curves

Elicit the colored bands they make

V.  Arousal, In the Land of Hades

Persephonic

Days split

Between

Here,

And the dreams

The poppy instills

Every instance

All fragments of

Traverse the numb

Every, each

Thought here now

Arouses consciousness

Of self.

The poetry of life

Is omnipresent

If only we all choose to look

The poetry of tomorrow

Resides, in part,

With the decisions we make today

The poetry of the long ago

Sure, it will echo,

Yet only if you allow it in

The poetry of the soul

Is always on

Awake or sleep,

It may be quiet

Yet if you listen

You’ll hear it speak.

Seemingly, since this poetry grew, from ghost-like fantasy, to a befriended reality, I’m aroused always and evermore.

If poetry could truly take a form…