Tuesday, October 4, 2011

Imitation of Keats or, The Moonflower

As the kings and queens of old,
sits the dame of nature virile, bold;
serenely breeding on moistened, blessèd land,
each side tight-clasped, two lovers’ palms.
Biding for time it swallows the sun.
Fit then at midnight when the children come,
each wearing faces of unknown gray,
oblivious faces with fear engraved,
wild-dancing laces proclaiming: “Manna!”
All pay their tribute to supreme Diana.
Who sits high up between the stars,
conceding guidance with a blissful hand,
And with a diamond touch lifts she the dreams
of the moonflower as bursting clock in New Year’s Eve,
but turning backwards the eternal ticking stream,
behold “It feeds! It feeds! It cannot but feed!”
Unfolds the avalanche, the silken white extends,
through unabashed, perfumed, greedy ends.
A devouring savage swelling up the cells
as soprano singing swiftly in sustained emotion.
Oh! Such a stretching, sounding poison,
lulling audience out of sense!
“More, and more, and more!”
Setting petals, pistils to adore,
platinum pollen, light-footed soars,
cracked pearl-lips wail: “Some more room to store”.
In such an ecstasy. . .no human could contain.
But the rays of sun betray,
and pillowed tunes have come their way,
caressing, falling. . .every now and then,
soothing the coiling, sensuous, lifeless stem,
conjuring deep slumber to every children’s head,
completing a cycle of sweet excess.

V.E. (2009)

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