PAINT STARS ON THE INSIDE OF A TEACUP

A new poem to start with today. A simple poem that explains itself.

Cobwebs trawl from wooden beams,

so I know there are spiders here.

On the wall, a possible meal,

I take in the vital green body,

the prism of the glass wings,

then cup the moth in my hands,

feel it flutter on my palms

and carry it to another room,

where I reason there is more space,

even if as many places for death to lurk.

There was something illogical about moving the moth from one room to another but I had to do it. It seemed the right action. 

Here is another revision of the poem I have been working on recently.

Dream Fragment

At the end of the story she planted a tree,

completing the circle with this tired metaphor.

I can recall the image - just,

radiance from the tree uplights her face,

gypsy caravans to one side,

the good people surround her.

A detailed engraving from a dreambook

is fading now my words have woken.

There is nothing for them to do,

a different reality imprints itself on my brain.

At the end of the story she planted a tree,

then climbed up its branches beyond my imagination.

This was not difficult, she tells the glass magpie who nods.

They will dance a tango over mulberry leaves,

paint stars on the inside of a teacup,

then consult ceolacanths,

for whom water is but an abstract notion.

Hers will be an interesting life.

At the end of the story she planted a tree.

You can see it if you stand on tiptoe

and look through that wall,

it is a strong plant and will outlast my thoughts.

Perhaps it will be an extra in a drama

that is played out in your head.

As you can see I have retitled it, and removed the last stanza. I had been pondering the effect of the final stanza and when I read the poem at a Juncture 25 meeting, that final stanza seemed to hold the poem to earth instead of letting it fly. I'd be interested in your thoughts.

Here's Beirut official video for Rip Tide.