Thursday, 6 October 2011

National Poetry Day

Luxurious warmth imbued

From the sparks of the Inglenook fire.

The heavy, heated, handsome furniture

Betrays his new epicurean hand,

Miles from our halcyon days:

The quintessential champagne slows to

The fragility of the falling gossamer.

I want to impress, to sparkle, to surprise

But here, at his party, in his place,

Inhabited by the esoteric circle from which I feel

Geometric exclusion,

I remain the loquacious but eloquent missive,

Whom everyone has learnt to ignore.

What do I do here?

I wonder.

Why is the concubine here?

Their identical porcelain eyes enquire.

Oh! And then an epiphany!

This room is but a palimpsest

In which the truth is hidden

in the penumbra just beneath.

I feel ethereal

Not anything but a ripple

Yet I see the snapping of the

glanourous gossamer

And the rhapsody begins.