31 August 2009


THE GOLDEN COMPASS

A sonnet’s my alethiometer,

A Golden Compass into which I stare,

Watching the needle swing where Fates prefer,

Then plunge into its visions rich and rare.

Without this cunning mystical device,

My consciousness remains in the mundane,

Yet with this instrument I can entice

Imaginary vistas from my brain.

The needle arcs from one rhyme to the next,

The meter beats its wings to stay aloft,

And wit, of numerous possibilities, selects

The fittest sounds, from thunderous to soft.

The Lethe in alethiometer
Must be the land of dreams where poems occur.

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