© 2015 Steve KingAll rights reserved
Everything I read,
the musics that I hear,
grave statuaries gesturing to me
the call of this or that philosophy—
each of these, you say,
reflect a distillation
of some perfected world.
But only through another’s heart, I say.
These will not levitate me on their own
to some, or other, supposed place or time,
undoing what the world has done to me,
forestalling what it yet may do,
or often breach the shadows
that flow across each moment
of even the most casual of the minds.
Such beauties as here be
are like the concrete guards,
or steel fence poles,
or rounding moats,
or bright signposts
or winding stairs,
or dreaming notes
that channel this journey
through what I hope
shall one day be a life—
guides only to my wandering
toward that far pathway
dimly held in my present guesswork,
yet one that has been ever laid for me.
Though never on my journeys
in that quest for latent grandeurs,
hidden still in that stubborn array,
shall I expect some sudden perfect vista to appear.
Those worlds barely foreshadowed
by all these things
I read and see and hear:
those things that pose between our meanings—
dark for me, for you so blinding clear.
(A new poem to be shared in the Imaginary Garden