The Muse

(An International Journal of Poetry)

ISSN 2249 2178

 

Volume-3                                                      DECEMBER -2013                                           Number-2

 

The Angels

by Leonore Wilson

 

Maybe those stone angels with the cracked elbows holding up the organ's pipes

hold up the entire world after all, maybe we are all flawed in specific ways

 

like the blind calf that followed its mother through the pastures of clover,

oblivious to the fact of slaughter as the mother was oblivious for in spring

 

the mud swallow was having its fledglings as was the flycatcher, both

returning to the same nesting place from the previous year and littering

 

the ground with waste and the tearing of feathers, the angels know

the man with the white cane has practiced and practiced his route

 

over the bridge of the Seine where the lockets of lovers remain,

he recognizes some of those lovers are no longer netted in affection

 

but are strained as the riverboat that carries its passengers is strained

as the passengers live in constant disdainful anxiety to fill their eyes

 

and their ears with the senses, and even their mouths with the sharp

sensation of lemons and quinces picked by the laborers whose hands

 

get little recognition, for even the laborers know a spot of dirt will

always cling to the fruit though it is rinsed daily before display;

 

 

we are all of us moving as the swans move, migratory over the waters

in winter, and in summer we return to the same little pool

 

next to the carousal that moves like a timepiece, timepiece

like the blue dashes of paint Miro swathed on his most beautiful

 

of canvases, wanting us to see the through his eyes the same spacious,

blue field, blue a symbol of a world of cosmic dreams, the unconscious

 

where his mind flowed clearly and without any order. Blue

the colour of a surreal, ethereal night, a night embodying the only place

 

where dreams could exist in their untainted uncensored rawest state.