Friday, December 12, 2014

Shelterland 0.1

Jesse S. Mitchell

 And I vow, here and now, to keep the utterances flowing,
To speak, speak and speak until poetry is a Magdalen at my feet, washing,
The blushing rush of blood.
       There are no more cults of believers.
       There is no more clangings of bells.
       And when winter comes, it is because it is cold
       And it wants no more of summer, of sun.
The world now, simply turns.
The oceans now, just open placidity, but broken by waves.
And mountains now, just open plains, but rumpled crushed for shattered bones.
       But in papal exiles in Avignon,
       With Vedic spits upon my tongue,
       I swear this is no tomorrowland
       No havenland
Take shelter
Take shelterland
If only in a dreaming.   

No comments:

Post a Comment