First Song

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

To that which moves, to that which moves, 

        Which penetrates the universal shine

        And shimmy, Roundabout, where other isn’t

Within, without, non-centric circle thing,

      All light that which in most the light begins

      Nor knows, nor can, who descant;

Because in drawing near to what is dear

      Our swallowy mind perspires and jealous folds

      Into itself where memory cannot go.

Truly whatever the realm holistic

     Powerful treasures, body and mind,

    Mind of which I thee sing.

Apollo, creed of the living

    Vessel me in thy talented power

     Bower of joy and sound!

One sum, it adds up to nought,

    For me for you for both

    Swim to the center and cry.

If you can imagine, you, and breathe

     In deepest drawing scent

    While I watch in awe and innocence.

Ten cents a dance, the best

  That I can do, shadow of the realm

  Stamped in my brain, blessed, so what.

Once there was a tree and a crown

  Underneath it all and nevertheless leaves,

  Which shall you choose, O!

So seldom, Father, so seldom, do we,

  But we try, we have to try and

  of human inspiration can we?

So back to the leaves and so forth,

  They fall all over the crown,

  Where is it I say? I say

But no one answers. Maybe better voices,

  better voices after me, after me.

  Alleluia. Please respond!

 

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Evening Walk

The slant of light gives all a clarity.

Emerald silhouetted leaves quake

against the lustered sky as folded  

wings congregate in glimmered shelters,

light and shadow tangled in the branches.

 

The path curves, and we, dimmer now,

and chill, stepping closer, hand, hand,

turn for shelter and repose,

but somewhere further on we see

shivered light spill redolent evergreen.

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Lands Away

                    There is no Frigate like a Book

                    To take us Lands away,

                    Nor any Coursers like a Page

                    Of prancing Poetry – 

                    This Traverse may the poorest take

                    Without oppress of Toll – 

                    How frugal is the Chariot

                    That bears a Human soul.

                                                Emily Dickinson

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Thunderstorms

The motion is what moves us,

Infidelity to earth,

The joy of thunderstorms,

Cleansing pain and discontent

With gleeful disregard

And reckless veneration

of what passes.

Copyright

© Copyright Stephen Evans © 2017 All Rights Reserved.

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Latest Comments

Monika Schott A rickety bridge
18 November 2017
Thanks, Di.
Diane Rampertshammer A rickety bridge
17 November 2017
Pure poetry - very evocative - you are a painter with words..Di
Ken Hartke Lamenting the Lost Art of Conversation
12 November 2017
Thanks for the comments. Rosy -- I look at this sort of social conversation as a healthful thing for...
Rosy Cole First Song
12 November 2017
This is almost like a memory of birth, reviving those sensations, but translated in imagistic terms....
Rosy Cole Lamenting the Lost Art of Conversation
12 November 2017
Oh Ken, how rare that is! A gift. What a lovely sojourn in the byways and an unexpected exchange of ...

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