Waiting for a butterfly

 Some poems sing beautiful chords:
 like classical music -the soaring of notes
 and the mellowing hum of joined words;
 or like a painting whose colours
 are dreams, whose shapes are illusory,
 abstract as a foreign language.
 My poems are full of English, the  
 careful thumb tacking of nouns and verbs
 stretchy experiments with syntax;
 but always longing to be understood
 like the silence of animals 
or a spinal shiver  
 or the weak smile of a sickle moon.
 I can’t escape meaning and drift
 in the tidal liquid of improvisation
 my words are words, rarely notes or colours;
 my shapes are recognizable as shadows.
 Sense.
Always sense 
like I’m a scientist after all
but my spirit craves untethering.
 
 
 Somewhere is a butterfly
 who will tow me away.
 
 

3 thoughts on “Waiting for a butterfly

  1. lovely poem but I have to disagree with the central image: there is music in your poems, certainly my favourite ones of yours, maybe not of the classical kind but they have the beauty and vigour of the vernacular, finely chiselled, a special hybrid beauty with pulse and colour: they are fully alive; classical poems, the type you speak of, have their beauty too but —I am sure not all will agree — of the museum or chamber piece kind —

    Liked by 1 person

    1. That is a wonderful comment. Thank you! I guess sometimes I read beautiful things and have no idea what they mean. And I envy the freedom of the author in not caring whether he/she is understood but simply writing a spring of images. Or maybe they do care and I just miss the point. Hard to say.

      Liked by 1 person

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