Processional Poem By James Merrill
Think what the demotic droplet felt,
Translated by a polar wand to keen,
All singularity, its Welt—
Anschauung of a hitherto untold
Flakiness, gemlike, nevermore to melt!
But melt it would, and—look—become
Now birdglance, now the gingko leaf’s fanlight,
To that same tune whereby immensely old
Slabs of dogma and opprobrium,
Exchanging ions under pressure, bred
A spar of burnt-black anchorite,
Or in three lucky strokes of word golf LEAD
Once again turns (LOAD, GOAD) to GOLD.
Happy Wednesday Messages…