Sitting at my old desk
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trying hard to reveal the dark
to pull it up, drag it out
and beat it into verbs and verse.
Languor of mind overwhelms me
my hand lays still
and I have become a dilettante
in the ways of angst.
How do I drain the cup of misery
when I feel this season all-around
blanketing old aches
with honey scents and petals.
Iím sure Dante didnít have to suffer the ways of
plum blossoms gently blessing the rock rose
or the hellebore glowing softly at him
from beneath the red camellia tree.
Or did the likes of Wolfe
have to watch the bees nudge
the voluptuous french lavender
while penning pain and fury.
Even the ducks on the pond
cause no ripple on the surface
and that stillness
becomes an effigy of me.
Honey eaters in the water jar
send shivery sparkles of silver in the air
while the young willow
shades the old cat snoring on the steps.
Cootamundra wattle diminishes the sun
turning the sky a startling shade of blue
And through tall windows, like a whispered chant
comes a eucalyptus scented breeze
I feel a sweetness rise in me
exciting love and swamping pique
till the dark is no more
than a shadow of a shadow.
Like an exorcist, this seductive season has
charmed the pysch-devils out of me.
Spring sweeping and opening
the blinds to light and peace.
Till the only pain I feel is joy
and I know this pen
will not dig up suffering today.
Not the poem which we have read, but that to which we return, with the greatest pleasure, possesses the power and claims the name of essential poetry.