Wednesday, December 30, 2009

the holy hoax was a hoax itself indeed

The covered path to the redbrick cloister
was overgrown well before acoustic strings
became the dogma of the pilgrim's skulk,
well before the baroque cake of an April down
replaced the simple brick of the red earth
with a hyacinth path that led to furtive tracing.

To have found in the crispy regulus one last spout of glee:
slated into the broken legato of the paving stones,
a flip-book pareidolia tempered in the flickering crypt.

Between the flat gray panels of kerning cracks
the nascent spouts of lime and white
poked with insouciant crinkled laughter,
though the splatter of up-kicked dew
drenched the parted surplice hem
with the haughty charm of lifted habits.

So we conversed into the third of the seventh sext
but we were not to attain the hoary fourth,
heated though we were by the chill of purple snow,
barred by the thin lack of another slippery lambskin.

The repressed pulse of bloody flats but sharply played
with devoted stops stepwise notched in muffled air,
majora chords to minora chords swollen to a key:

an egressive kiss inside the robed and hooded matin
brought our pearly spittle into proud display,
warmed as we were by the gnostic mist of promise
and a pink fascalia wrapped to prime your chords.

Winged cymbals clashed and fey proclaimed
loudly into that brash and heathen season
when we were the power and the glory amen.


Anonymous said...


"Winged cymbals clashed and fey proclaimed / loudly into that brash and heathen season" Awesome lines!

This poem made me think of Marrakech in the 60s. Not that I was there at the time, unfortuntaly.

Ande said...

So rich. A cascade of markers and signs.

gerry boyd said...

Thanks pals. wish i'd been in Marrakesh in any decade. Have to settle for a "Marrakesh of the Mind". Pretty sure I've been there. Maybe still am.

Francis Scudellari said...

It's always an extreme pleasure to read your pieces. Too many beautiful lines to single out, but I really love the fourth stanza.

Jenny said...


I agree with Francis; it is hard to choose lines, as there are so many great ones. But these are favorites of mine:

"The repressed pulse of bloody flats but sharply played/with devoted stops stepwise notched in muffled air"

Beautiful piece and I can see why PO speaks of Marrakech. Lovely.

Akeith Walters said...

As always, your poem is thick with beautiful words. I like it.

Harlequin said...

have to say, the re-read is even more enjoyable..... great title and last line; I like how they bookend the piece, which has amazing imagery and detail.