Contentment

June 10, 2008 at 6:56 pm | Posted in poetry, writing | 11 Comments
Tags: , , ,

Beyond the light of the fire
spirits and riders pass followed and following
in a mad decadent parade
spinning gracious histories
like soft desert whirligig constellations.
With a heavy sigh he turns on his side
curls his arm round her waist
and buries his face in her hair.

In the absence of memory, of stability in time
the coarse mechanics of grammar collapse
into a scrapyard of conjunctions and gears,
verbs asking where Machiavelli went
with his velvet inducements to intent.
There sunonhead dreams of
Venetian palace intrigues
to be conducted like impossible waltzes.

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11 Comments »

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  1. This is very beautiful and conjures many images. The careful use of words to make us feel the surroundings enhances the dreamlike quality. I like the way the waltz is at the end, suggesting a continuation left to our imagination. Lovely stuff.

  2. once again you cast forth your magic stones and i find myself skipping along gorgeous tangents.
    Machiavelli = Prince = Frog… leading me back to a prior poem and I giggle to myself at the wonderful dance of threads. The complexity and creativity that lives inside your head is endlessly fascinating. beautiful poem, come dance with me…

  3. great rhythm. this has such a historical feel to it. love the images. love “soft desert whirlgig constellations.” love the periods of tenderness in it. great job.

  4. You use imagery very well. Great rhymes as well.

  5. Words to drown in.

  6. It collapses alright…

  7. This part is just amazing!!

    “In the absence of memory, of stability in time
    the coarse mechanics of grammar collapse
    into a scrapyard of conjunctions and gears”

    Again, amazing work.

  8. I agree ngetha. Love it! Great writing Paul. glad I discovered it.

  9. verbs asking where Machiavelli went<—-swoon.

    Venetian palace intrigues
    to be conducted like impossible waltzes.<—-you total poet you!!

  10. Thankyou so much all of you. This is one of those poems that I like a lot but isn’t so much liked by others, so thanks for all the commentcompliments, more precious for being rarer,

  11. the first stanza is very sweet but the writer in me loves these 3 lines best:

    the coarse mechanics of grammar collapse
    into a scrapyard of conjunctions and gears,
    verbs asking where Machiavelli went


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