Friday, December 18, 2009

31 August 2009


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.