Poem 90: Blue

Kingfisher waited near fish-filled stream and flashed blue fire.
Distant thunder grumbled to a scream and flashed blue fire.

A welder melded into shape tough unbending steel;
this artist’s arc launched one steady beam and flashed blue fire.

The frantic horse’s metal shoes on stony gravel
broke the silence of the morning’s gleam and flashed blue fire.

Massed irises turned their heads towards the rising sun;
yellow, purple, peach, rose, white, and cream, and flashed blue fire.

And Bruce, patience at an end with this and that and things,
saw this growing mound of stifled dreams and flashed blue fire.

To hear the poem read click HERE!

21 thoughts on “Poem 90: Blue

      1. umashankar

        I guess one can’t roll out poetry everyday unless one were a Wordsworth or a Coleridge in his trance. Ghazals can pose serious challenge but when they come it’s like rain falling down on parched earth.

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  1. João-Maria

    I’m not in the habitude of lunging out sycophantic compliments of poems; I don’t think they are designed to be complimented, or, at least, mine aren’t, and although the sentiment is abound in innocence and kindness, I don’t think it is the maximum exponent of said kindness when it comes to interacting with said composition. I like the way you design around your words, what we call an “arcaboiço”, which has no veritable translation in English, but roughly means “architecture”.
    That architecture of words — thus, how we intimately think, along with the mental punctuation which, almost by divine designation, rends the thoughts to just the very fine pellicle which matters to us — our neuro-linguistic approach to entropy; that architecture, in you, is something I can more-or-less understand, but not outwardly. I read this composition, and I think things are most alive when they die, that colour shouts when dissolved, that fire flashes by, extenuated, depleted, and that we are given, almost somatically, almost anathematized to live this perpetual living, this perpetual dying, this perpetual mourning. it weighs. I’m far too young to know the weighing of it fully, but I suppose I have the sensibility of translation, which means I can perceptively feel the outlines of it, because I’m accustomed to labour harder for any sort of understanding.
    Also, when your accent transfigures flashed into fleshed; “fleshed blue fire” has somewhat of a treacly sensation. The textures of our speech such interesting bevels of our histories. But I’m prone to maundering.

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