as the light falls
splashing its last burst ’cross the neighborhood
before dimming to sleep
& letting a calm chill take o’er
atop the rocks
gazing o’er the fence
@ the highway still being built
expression inscrutable
mouth iron rigid
under the sunset’s final glow
like a spotlight on the last encore
bright yellow on bright yellow —
the taciturn fire hydrant
Consciousness partially exists
Outside of the 3rd dimension
Being able to conceive of
Concepts such as
Paradox or infinity
Greater by definition
Than the sum total
Of this entire universe
The Multifold is deep
In the branches of synapsis
Origami out of phase
Human grey matter has imploded
Subatomically
Into spooky action at a distance
Einstein was right
Time and space are relative
To our thoughts
I've been meditating on inspiration lately, and my thoughts keep returning to this passage from William Blake's epic poem "Milton". If anyone has ever truly understood inspiration, it was Blake.
"Every Time less than a pulsation of the artery
Is equal in its period & value to Six Thousand Years.
For in this Period the Poet's Work is Done; and all the Great
Events of Time start forth & are conceiv'd in such a Period,
Within a Moment, a Pulsation of the Artery."
Over the wall we
go, other unwise
it’s one-sided. You
don’t see unless
you ascend and
fall. Sure, you
could climb
down,
but better to
see limbs akimbo
and imbibe
adrenal gland
purée. Otherwise
you’re repeating
the climb in
reverse.
@poetry THE POETRY OF TELEVISION: this #monologue#poem delivered by Mr. T on the hit 80's #tvshow#TheATeam is written in 6 tercets (3 line stanzas) that are in song format. The Rhyme Scheme is: aab,ccd,eef,ggh,iij,kkl. If I were to perform this poem, I would speak the lines like a talk-sing or a rap song. I would also put a brief pause between the 3rd line of a stanza and the 1st line of the following stanza. http://jamesivan.poetry.blog/2023/08/25/the-a-team-the-song-of-mr-t/
When all's said, and done,
if civilisation drowns
the last colour to go
will be gold -
the light on a glass,
the prow of a gondola,
the name of a rosewood piano
as silence engulfs it.
And first to return
to a waterlogged world,
the rivers slipping out to sea,
the cities steaming,
will be gold,
one dip from Bellini's brush,
feathers of angels, Cinquecente nativities,
and all that follows.
--Gillian Clarke