ars poetica: the language of light verse
upon reading w.h. auden
room leaves shadows, initiates gaps, a darkness lurks in corners. Put a mirror, fitting strangely, put up a clue strangely, strangely clustered glass, piling up optic until all sides blaze, the one inch flame now a huge deviant light: the pacific room shines in the illusion of blaze. By just a candle, inhibit the chaos sea. Each glass echo is a word, illuminates off shadow. Alive, this author room, this fun biopic indication of space, of spacing, of the celestial geometry of light disseminates, rebounding endless echoes, grows to depict heat until there is no room left, no beatific candles, no walls. Left is a fragment of the holder’s glass, still burning, long after the spilt wax has disappeared into the cold.
A previous version of this poem appeared in If Language
Posted by dwaber at 01:58 PM