In Defence of Artistic Sanity

 
I am harvesting 
the color blue
from a forest of sky;
I store it inside my chest
so I can feed the imagination ghosts—
explosions may follow,
literary fissures in the sediment of soul:
arrows of flowers, everywhere—
but no prosodic structure,
for my poems are always
just short of an elegant breath.

An azure umbrella drip-drips a
silence several centuries deep. 

A pause, again.
Unbearable? Perhaps.

Fascinating thing,
this enchantment, 
of sitting under a 
mountain-fire of Zen.

I try to be very elegant.
I try to please Caesar.
I try to balance immortal syntax
on the equator of my fair-skin.
I try to place one foot in front of the other.

I also delight in my 
wet-black ignorance
concerning the structure
of the immortal medieval sonnet.

I got so used to my old body
sitting in its wooden rocking chair,
of bronze hoofs galloping across
marble fields; of strutting
thoughts leaping for attention; of
the endless sigh of a mind’s moaning jewels—

now I want to write
about the thighs of the moon;
or the brilliant river
of tangerine light hovering over
a wild forest of honey; or
the enormous echo of sunlight petals
falling just beyond my dwarfish reach; or

the sheer audacity of opening
the window of my skull to the
haunting winds of a beauty
in everything I cannot see.

Whatever the color or tone of
this harvest of blue; whatever the
spring sky of a ravished heart; whatever
the long sigh that acrobats its
way across the thin babble of air,

whatever these things, open your eyes.
#473
© Stephen Roberts

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