A Poet's Wish
Sometimes I wish that
the damned poem--
that wretched hag-maiden
of words and pauses and commas and ideas
and words words words--sometimes
I wish my hand-maiden,
smirking and taunting with
shielded eye and sinuous
shadow hidden in half-memory--
yes! THAT hag-maiden--right there!
I wish she would grant me a gift from
her treasure trove, a simple thing
from one who knows and holds
so much. . .
I would ask her to give me a poem whole,
a poem whole, rich in language from gods and gophers,
resplendent in thunder swans striking new life
into the centre of dewdrops.
This poem would gently fold
its completeness into my hand, my mind, my being
and vibrate there, every comma bristling
Sometimes , perhaps in dreams like this,
the forging hand can indeed strike sparks
of gold on the anvil
and push back the shadows
in one master stroke
incapable of error.
But these moments of hope only muffle
for a quiet moment
the lyrical cackle of my maiden of choice
receding into the cavern of metaphors