homage to a poet

my muse requires that I feel nauseated

when my talismans are not of her worth,

and must remediate with intense turmoil.

I think of her all the more strenuously

now that I can't double her grace in praise,

but the love of my muse by no one lays

and freely bestows to whoever plays

accents and rhymes to accrue steps by dance;

thus as I did while victim of my sprint

suffering to think I must do her more.

is this pain the deserved recompense

for some ill uses of her light presence?

I grovel in sweat, I lament aloud

that the source of pleasure where freshness sprung

is corrupted by odes that flew for her might.

with despair, I savour my new impotence

supinely chained to horizons that spread

between the shadow running the ceiling

with arguments of air and tapered dust,

where memories inflate to blank reproach

directions that pivot on static points.

what appears evil from what most is just

must be justly evil...

                                   Then you Rimbaud

come to my succour in the midst of life

that none I could foresee but endless toil

to no avail nor repose. You

have deeper plunged the dread that cuddles me

and pricked the hell of her inmost embrace

with a cold rein that comforts my shivers.

you too beheld the library of clouds

topple on waves with leafless spokes that spawn

the voracious fleets of single-eyed creature

sludging the shore where the weak citadel

of the realist awaits  future ruins;

you knew the waistless sheaves of the sun

hard are on the husks that seek to shelter

the singular by abstract camouflage

but must be wrestled with to define a beam

through which spurned veins harden the received heat

in the multiple thrusts of a chisel

that the ripples curbs with hours of fancy,

nibbling on stubborn details to create

by differences an army of tropes,

the poet's necessity from circumstances.

but then from wading along infinite brood

you successfully reached for silence

tossing aside the sounds and images

that conceal by merit that abrasive

need to meet in words the inspiring nought.

great passions like yours can know no pleasure

only vain relief from self-consumption:

the constant jarring of visions light with

the brinks from which the depths conceal their absence

on glittered rumbles compounded to truth,

the fluent rebirth of poesy beyond the

poet's askance body at her fount. It's she

that quenches the urge toward immanence

with the sleep of sensuous perseverance.

yes Rimbaud, through you I understood

that the outcome of endeavour must be

displeasure; let the beggar professors

prostitute by speeches the subject's wealth,

and grammarian prophets adjust meaning

in rules for the comfort of shared naivete;

the innocent wonder that doesn't exhaust

the voice it arches to hear elides its noise

prostitute by reason the subject wealth,

the innocent wonder that doesn't exhaust

the voice it arches to hear elides its noise.

then the lyre on the laurel turn to crown

for the few that let orphic winds strum

spontaneous blooms between act and relent.