It has been a while since I wrote Read Sonnet 12, will you?. In this poem I spoke of the dilemma of sharing poetry with an anti-poet.
What happens when the anti-poet suddenly reforms? It can happen. The anti-poet can one day be subsumed by a recognition of the power of language, even metre. This happened one morning and so I wrote….
What exactly does this mean?
He points to typography.
I squint, the morning light gets into the eyes,
Donne the metaphysical poet, he says.
Stunned is when absurdity opens its curtains no more to bleakness,
But trees in bud, a winning poet’s vocabulary.
I look at Donne and he looks back.
Explain, he says.
Isn’t this what you wanted after all?
The moment, yours, when the veil opens,
Fruit revealing all without a prayer to beg?
I’m done with it at least for now, I cannot understand a word
A magic necklace slips off my throat,
The meanings once more clothed.
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