A poem unlike versifying couplets,
slips, dips, rolls, and unfolds,
unpredictably uprooting templates
you make, and persist to remake
supporting your church like ideas.
It has a bouquet redolent of beeswax,
easily hidden by the honeyed words
siren voiced ambition makes;
ever turning its word smithy wheel
in search of gold.
Seemingly somnolent, arbitrary,
willingly obtuse, careless of poet;
always present on the borders of sleep
when the brain tired of strictures,
cries in the cradle of childhood.
The scent undoes our education,
mocks the knowledge and nakedly
meddles with your love life.
Demands to be noticed in company;
makes the wise behave like fools.
Vaporous with a musicality that taunts
in a couplet that will not intend,
like a virgin shy of the bed
obtusely denying desire
it will not leave your head.
The pen sulks. I force it to flow.
A jumble of notes jar senses;
deletions, repetitions, invocations,
all to no avail. I throw down the pen.
Darkness do your deeds. I sleep.
Come morning, sunlight snickers
at the waste bin. The smell is there
in the lettered scraps, the pen gibbers
my primordial mind goes hunting;
it savours the odour, nose twitching.
Passionately, painlessly, the poem
like a woman on her seconding breath
loses all reserve screams soundlessly.
Union at last. The smell is irresistible
and I am gratefully spent.
© Tony Ashenden 2026
LatinosUSA 
Deja un comentario