© 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
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,
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.
Creating perspective of tortured spirit:
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...