My words of verse are not like ráin stréaming from a water-burdened cloud; nor like the blossom on the vine-tip that fálls and reaches the ground despite the absence of a wind. Nor like the green ringlet that peeps out from the seed-born stem; nor even like the little bird whose wings outspread of their own accórd. I seek instead for similes, search nature with deliberate eyes, (wearing a poet’s disguise), to find and praise what must be praised; what does not rust (with words that I to rhyme entrust). Yet all the while I wish so much to write like I were heaven-touched.
a gulmòhar flower
cáught in the crosshairs of the sun
guarded by drawn-leaves of green
shaded by the blue of sky
within a wreath of wind;
the rising wave
crested by a froth of white
washing onto watered-shore
mágicked by the purple shell of sea;
coloured by the spilling bow of rain
casting shadows of its warmly light
into a halfly dark;
the koeling bird
rousing the pitchness of the night
into the daying light;
the well of words
flowing over heartly kerbs
to flood the paging white
Your geometry’s beyond compare, weave, wéave your web in the evening air.
We who do not know your art, we who cannot see your heart spèak of the cobwebs of the mind; márk the wisdom of mankind. Your geometry’s beyond compare, weave, wéave your web in the evening air.
God’s own gymnast you are who tumbles through the air to forge your web from out the milky-spittle of your breast with pause for neither breath nor rest. Eight-needled spinner of your nest! So dexterous and sedulous and fast, is every web you build your best? Your geometry’s beyond compare, weave, wéave your web in the evening air.
Born architect of your own home, you spiral ceaselessly into the placid centre of your snare – with warp fìner than fìnest hair, with weft so slight it’s barely there, it seems no different from the air. Your geometry’s beyond compare, weave, wéave your web in the evening air.
Your threaded, convex, ribbèd home is like invèrted geodèsic dome, woven by instinct, and instinct alóne; and in this hanging home you sit – wàiting – wàiting – wàiting. Your geometry’s beyond compare, weave, wéave your web in the evening air.
I see you there upon your height, I see you now in the fading light, your pincers motionless and tight, and in this evening light that’s going, in this fragrant wind that’s flowing, among these butterflies’ flying, within your breast there must be growing, within you must be self-renewing another milky-spittled webbed delight.