Minor Fifth

I don't know anymore. About what poetry is supposed to mean or sound like. I guess that's freeing in a way, to be able to entirely forget.

Inveterate light, this finds you wishful for 
All discovery to be a slow and joyful process 

Bestowed upon your brow, a faint secret 
Muttered and kneaded into papyri and wine

An effortless angle, a stony throw from 
One Tree Hill to the Waitemata and beyond

For we, to each our own collective suffering 
Embedded in pages which comes from slow duress

A meaningful novel of pleasure and progress, the silence 
Of in-between and it's too early for all of this nonsense 

At night, alone, always alone and reading Whitman, Dante 
And sipping merlot, at night, all distance becomes shallow

And finite, all exists as it should, however wide and out of sight 
For this is an inferno of plainspoken fright, the laughter 

And disorder which begets the present, which tells me 
I am never right, a placenta, unsure of belonging.

Reviews

[J]

ON THE BEACH AT NIGHT

by: Walt Whitman (1819-1892)

On the beach at night,
Stands a child with her father,
Watching the east, the autumn sky.

Up through the darkness,
While ravening clouds, the burial clouds, in black masses spreading,
Lower sullen and fast athwart and down the sky,
Amid a transparent clear belt of ether yet left in the east,
Ascends large and calm the lord-star Jupiter,
And nigh at hand, only a very little above,
Swim the delicate sisters the Pleiades.

From the beach the child holding the hand of her father,
Those burial-clouds that lower victorious soon to devour all,
Watching, silently weeps.

Weep not, child,
Weep not, my darling,
With these kisses let me remove your tears,
The ravening clouds shall not long be victorious,
They shall not long possess the sky, they devour the stars only in apparition,
Jupiter shall emerge, be patient, watch again another night, the Pleiades shall emerge,
They are immortal, all those stars both silvery and golden shall shine out again,
The great stars and the little ones shall shine out again, they endure,
The vast immortal suns and the long-enduring pensive moons shall again shine.

Then dearest child mournest thou only for Jupiter?
Considerest thou alone the burial of the stars?

Something there is,
(With my lips soothing thee, adding I whisper,
I give thee the first suggestion, the problem and indirection,)
Something there is more immortal even than the stars,
(Many the burials, many the days and nights, passing away,)
Something that shall endure longer even than lustrous Jupiter
Longer than sun or any revolving satellite,
Or the radiant sisters the Pleiades.

_______________________________________________________________________

[Artisan Ren]

I love this J and I can relate

[Ruthy]

Words are not enough to describe this poem.It's invaluable

[J.P. Bristow]

A great read.............post something new soon.

[mikl paul]

you end every poem so well.

[Emily B]

as beautiful as your words can be lined up on the page every one in exactly the right place, my soul aches to hear them read aloud

[Alicante lullaby]

i think anyone who reads you can testify that your words belong to a bigger and better purpose...leaving us all in awe..

[Sweet_pale_cacophony]

This is like a collection of an array of thoughts..in its natural and random form cause our thoughts are never coherent so to speak.There is much i like in this poem like the lines..
And finite, all exists as it should, however wide and out of sight
For this is an inferno of plainspoken fright, the laughter

And disorder which begets the present, which tells me
I am never right, a placenta, unsure of belonging.

Elegant,brilliant and so very spontaneous..