Thursday, March 31, 2011


turn like suppliants
and bow before the vital sphere
laden with yesterday's rain
and colour that seems
not at all from God's hands
but by some form
of shop floor contrivance

Yellow so natural
and pure,
as if by our own hands
and self-absorption
have lent paint to the world
to satisfy our drab desperation

In the artificial collective
we need not experience
the luminous flare of petals directly
but duplicate the marvel
and give meaning to beauty
in the foresaken vases of institutions

Do daffodils know their own loveliness,
their true natures
and the ordered columns
of nodding heads
and the perfume
of exquisite pleasure that they are,
that is their essence,
their gift?

And the answer is
to know them,
breathe them
and thank them
for the realization of seduction
and the immediate recognition of perfection,
the absolute attainment
of being without judgement

No comments:

Post a Comment