Poets

[To read prose essays by Warren Falcon go to falconwarren.blogspot.com]

What the orphan knows about light —

hidden behind a star
the ash sings without self-pity


yet burns no desert

impervious to heat

all kinds, even human,

excepting the heart

its capacities to startle



Truth be told, O presenting grief,

I have been poem-less for months


I blame the Intruder, insisting


the death of poetry

and so much more, like, say -


Everything I kneel to


out of brokenness,


out of elevation,


devotion perhaps in
between

little flames
beyond their wicks,

mystic at last



If I wore a hat
I would remove it


such pure slow gestures

butoh or

ballet

convey


that there is not even wind, that

there is only spirit

beyond flame — words,


what comes after — as before


what staring is for

when in doldrums

then, again,

read much,


find moment's reprise -

slips a phrase from a
sleeve,

an image dreamed,

poetry visual


so

try


and fail

palms up



it does not go unnoticed

**

Charles Winquist here lays it out clearly, darkly, clearly better than I could - ever - though still I'll endeavor - W. Falcon


'We do not mourn that we see through a glass darkly, we now rejoice in the dark loveliness of the glass. (Dominic Crossan,1975: 39) '

To 'rejoice in the dark lovelinss of the glass' is an alteration..