The Unstrung Lyre Poem By Eric Pankey
With what can I string this antique lyre:
A snowy contrail? A trace of ether?
A little belt of stars the morning veils?
The wet end of a sounding line that drips
Souvenirs from the wintry depth’s calm?
These unaccompanied words, a capella,
May as well be words in an empty chapel:
Fire-gutted, cellar-cold, shadows gathered
In the pews instead of parishioners.
What are words spoken to no one but prayer,
But the restless gibber of the heart,
Frantic, willing to say anything,
To beg mercy of what might silence it?
As bright as an Annuciation lily,
As a bowstring shimmering to stillness,
The Word is what I heard and cannot replicate.
This unstrung frame may as well be a loom
Upon which no tomorrow is woven,
Upon which no tomorrow is postponed.
Happy Wednesday Messages…