To be a bit more accurate, regarding poets in any case, a few such men have gone here before.
I believe, although I choose not to look for it now, I have offered up another post on this subject; as such, this is the continuation of that post; in that, this morning, Continue reading
About me all reality doth spin,
The ground beneath my feet doth buck and twist,
My eyes alight on anything herein,
And will perceive its panic-worthy list.
And panic is the most confused of sound
Which swells and whirls around my pounding ears,
Confusing and directionless: its sound,
Exacerbating measureless: my fears.
Perceive I not the matter I may touch,
As whether hard or soft, or hot or cold.
Although such nature hardly matters much,
such things are all completely uncontrolled.
My digits, my appendages feel thick
I think I am most positively sick.
This strikes me somewhat
As a bit too Majorcan.
I must be slipping.
Ode to my virus?
Am I now losing my touch?
I dearly hope not!
perfection is seen reflected
in the blade of my sword
greens and golds
melt on the blade
with a thin edge of blue
snow swirling,
resting, melting,
white glimmers,
now red as it reflects
early blooms of quince
blood rust, sun gold
seasons change
shades of grey
glints of starlight and full moon
in the blackness after midnight
an ever changing picture
less than two inches wide
Doth, sylphidine, my poet walk the night.
Her nature, sybaritic; every wish
As spritely, and as sensuous a whim,
That, sibilant, depriveth of her sight;
The magic of her grace, her subtle flight.
Of flowery gifts, she writeth, she hath won;
Of sunsets, singeth she, luxuriant, warm;
And downy-cool, her mountaintops of white.
We shall, as loveth she, so never love;
Nor built we paradise, as hath she done.
Doth sleep our kingdom not upon the clouds,
Nor fortress, on such billows, dream above.
So vanquished she, as many, though but one;
She triumphed clear; yet had we only shrouds.
I spoke once of her
Away, on a winter’s night
Not so long ago….
Long ago, I heard,
Chanced by some unlikely place,
Hauntingly, her voice.
My love has wings–slender, feathered things–
With grace in upswept curve and tapered tip,
My love would soar–swiftly to adore–
So twisting ever toward, and graceful skip.
So dances she–round and round to be–
Enrapt to bring us care, to bind us kept,
My love should know–you, my love, bestow–
Your Own, as did He dance and graceful stepped.
For now as wed… They–Our Love has said–
Would bear us swiftly hence as spectral ships;
So lovely They–So lighted, Their display–
That would illuminate our Earthly trips.
And lovely see–you and I–as We…
Take flight, as when I tasted first your lips.
David Emeron: Sonnets 