I’ve only desired to light old lamps with young wicks
(the tongues of flame must be blinking hard with vigilance)
Across dark, mildewed alcoves that smell of ink —her writing ink —
But one thing led to the other, and the ink I
Found froze in my eyes, the bottle instantly petrified among desert ruins.
I searched, from my village to Nantucket, borrowing
The courage of voyaging storms, seeking earnestly her quill feather,
Just to caress her pretty face with it.
But the power of distance arrested me midway and warned me
Of the dangers of costly adventures.
I hankered after a trained parrot —an amanuenses of note—
With less brilliant plumage,
Electrifying elocution,
To detect to me the protocols of her language.
But that, too, failed.
The parrot was either born mute or chose to be.
I did all I could? to seek, to find, to locate, to identify items
Belonging to her —bric-a-brac of a telling age.
And then there were none.
Categories:
amanuenses, tribute,
Form: Ode
Scented smoke from sandalwood upwards rose
As the venerable sage in yogic pose
Chanted arcane, esoteric Vedic prose.
The Sylvan glade with marigold and rose,
Where the doe with its deer fearlessly goes,
For its tranquility the Rishi chose.
The ancient mantras of mysterious force
Stirred up the Asuras, put them in throes,
Invoked the Deva, who blessings bestows.
The demons destroyed, there were no further woes,
The sage sat in peace his sagas to compose.
Born thus were amanuenses of Epics, I suppose.
~ 10 May 2016 ~
Categories:
amanuenses, fantasy, imagination,
Form: Monorhyme