Saturday, November 22, 2008

Temporary dementia

This is the poem I've been working on. It was a bit of a struggle, and I may still revisit it. There's not much biographical in it, other than a few loose-stitched scenes from a recent dream. 

by Francis Scudellari

From a mind's sharp cycling,
His life spun through;
Then reels forward to now
In colored streams;
Faces, at first static,
Thinly sprinkled
Bits of dust, laid afar
Are raised timeless
In eddies' swirl; Gathered
Up; Loose-tear glued
To feature-smoothed spheres, then
By thought storms flung,
Strike thick crystal landscapes;
Punch-out windows:
Perfect round glimpses of
The backing black

Each impact slow-stretches,
Sudden shatters
His scene-cracked mirror; Shards,
Paper-fold hinged,
On jagged wings fly up,
Cutting skyward;
Each fractured flap captured
Stop-frame motion;
Gravity freed, vapor
Tails wag behind;
Their glass-voiced cries echo,
One-note alarm,
Ring present-trapped ears; Pull
Him disordered
To this world; Awoken
For one moment
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