Saturday, September 7, 2013

 Trapping a Muse -by Robert Hunter 
 
Go for it, go under, make your way back, recall what you went for first
decided to get -- got,  declined to keep, woke up on a bus 
saw the place go by and kept riding.
 
Written in rope 'round the neck of the famine
"this my own, my native land, this my own country"
men in overcoats bearing a pall in the rain,
I and not I equally, at ease within the shroud.
 
How a mild breeze can shut a door so that you look up wondering what she wants of you: 
nothing and everything.
Look to your lines and ignore the source.
 
A ghost for all seasons, stroking the nape of the neck of the moon --
strawberries of Ganymede, the blood oranges of Gethsemane; 
the dates of Amon Ra.
 
Sparks of fluttering rings as she shows the shape of the smoke;
the smooth sides of the flame.
 
Useless to imitate when the thing itself is far from outstanding.
    This is the Age of Understanding. Before it the Age of Marvels.
Before it the Age of Belief, the flow of the hair on the scalp of the skull...
the beach in the sun of sea salt winter -- rage
with runes in the dark of the parking lot.
Metanoia : fear of avenging angels.