Poetic Hours Online Autumn 2008 |
Geoffrey Winch |
Romantic Thoughts fervent expectations fond remembrances flights of fancy words of the heart or garden paths cruel deceivers snapshots of fictitious worlds shackles on the heart sometimes melodies of passing promise that leave you richer often poorer sometimes lonely at best Romeo and Juliet affairs with the risk of tragic ends Night Quest A search for words for a rhythmic line will keep you awake when you know there's still that mountain to climb yet you must close your eyes. So you do, wishing you were on a trip that would take you above misty peaks, to vistas that you've never dreamed of before. There you could linger in a heady bower to absorb the sense of calm, where ivies cascade in dancing coils and laurels garland white marble busts, where harmony is the cultured norm of history, poesy and aesthetic charm, and could listen to the distilled atmosphere playing variations of orphic hymns then, from your shady closet of patient hope, approach a Parnassian temple that must appear, seek out Zeus's daughters who repose around a splendid fountain. When they beckon you would draw close, listen to them plucking lyre strings, listen to their whispered, fluted breath. And you would watch closely for virgin tablets they would give to you inscribed with those elusive then, quite suddenly, lucid words. So you would gather up your given gift you might never return again and travel back to your waking hour, to the photomontage of morn, enter again the diurnal world where inspiration can fade like a dream. And you would be sure to waste no time in transcribing those winning words you had gleaned. Autumnal Fog Once his prism eyes illuminated fecund minds till they blazed with every colour beneath the sun and life was a breeze. Then fault lines were detected detaching him from full consciousness silence from his once sirenic source. Clouds engaged the universe he could no longer explain. Then the inability to climb the stairs, never again to see the stars. Now in academia's cellar he wears November clothes colours caught in closets behind fogged eyes. |
