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THE HANDSTAND |
OCTOBER 2003 |
These poems Written on light curls of paper Placed in a sacred prayer Orifice Of the ancients Whirled in the cylinder, Vent, in
the bright air. In the poet’s tranch of hazels, The nut-grove Hung above the world, As a poem, A cloud scroll.
Beyond belief But within, and inside the flash of this gesture; For I too must live for you And herewith I vow That all I hid under stones Can now be resurrected. With a sharp knock On the headstone of a bishop I
cracked the nut. I climbed steps To wrest with riddle Shallow, ancient, treads. Beyond, roof corbels, now Abandoned as blunt Curved wings of ravens To
support a keen mind. Where oak beams shone Their long cells Bend A wind door. Black sloes drop, Light spreads, as the well rises. Lustrous transparent tribune of justice. Helicon. On the other side of the stair Descent
was steep. If truth is the real mind Who would trust government's burlesque Solitary Oracle of power Wrenching bones From dust To flood dust with blood ? May he be seen trembling... Where his insufferable arrogance pauses Because the carved lion, Rests in the lintel… One step taken Toward the column of the arch. Alone silent. At the entrance my palm Slips into a stone pocket, A handrest for fourteen hundred years. I may
leave a message there . jocelyn
braddell©2003 |
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