© J.A. Storey -Taylor 1988

Poetry as prophecy.

To touch upon the Divine

With sweeping mind and uplifted heart,

Seeking, searching for beauty.

Poetry as divination?

Divination as revelation?

To see a silver thread

And pluck it from the airs

And weave of it

Imageric words.

The actor, the poet:

Worshipped in bygone days

Of civilizations raped and left bleeding by progress.

Respected as those with a link

To the esoteric sweetness:

One thought lost or unattained,

Or, so sorrowfully, unattainable,

By the cultures they have served

So faithfully and well.

Yet any man who works with love

Cannot but help find love:

The expressor, the actor;

The creator, the poet.

As, in the moments of deep stillness,

The farmer stands his soil

And the carpenter turns the wood.

There, in ascension and descension,

Comes wordless, thoughtless,

Awareness, recognition, acceptance and expression.

These men are the wise men

And no less divine for their labours.

Of those who take to task

Wherein the centre cannot centre

And perceive the loveliness and power

Of its mirrored reflections,

And inner eye cannot be brought to gaze

Upon the fleeting, flickering images

Of no known form or colour or emotion,

Ever flowing,

Ever bright:

How can they ever learn

That which yearns within the heart

Of every man?

Yet there is limitation to the wise man.

The farmer, bonded to the crops he sows;

The craftsman, to the line of the chair;

Is not even the stroke of the master painter

Restricted to the size of the canvass?

It is the actor, the Freeman,

Who journeys only within the boundaries

Of the infinite possibilities

Of human nature and behaviour.

And the poet, the Free:

As he opens but a single garden gate.

To behold the Beauty,

Dwell upon the Perfection,

In the far horizon

Where sojourns the ugly and the flawed.

Seer under Grace,

Ever under Grace.

For in the inferno

Of Dante's Divination

And the bright night burning

Of the savage beast

Of Blake's Beatitude:

Did neither walk a single step

Beyond the Loving Hand.

Tortured mind,

Tortured heart,

Tortured body,

Creating perspective of tortured spirit:


Tortured soul?

It is only ignorance

Which has no wings.

Made so afraid by the tracing

Of that found future to my pen,

By the grievous grief of

The slow, grinding evolution

As circle comes full in revolution.

Yet, far from the

Muddied, tumultuous waters

Is there mill-pond calmness:

To reflect in quiescence

Moon-path of daylight brightness

Whilst making of the harsh sun

A gentle kiss...

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