Gemma Bukowski Bluebird


Art is like Revelation–every word has 70 meanings
and every phrase 70 times 7,
with none holding forth unmistakably so.
Our levels of inspiration to envisage depend on
non-poetic biorythms and alpha waves
we mostly ignore but ought to cultivate.
What I, breathless, perceive is meaningless to you,
and after a moment it will be lost to me
as I drift away from blossomed worlds I’d barely glimpsed.
Poetic revelation is not so much a destination as a rush,
and the colors are kaleidoscopic–what an awful word.
Words can never contain rapture pouring through the heart,
yet this poem is so wonderful I want to tell
its tale to others than myself–impossible.
Poetry is, in truth, impotent and is only brought to life
within that inner private world of little “b” bliss.
Thank you so much, Gemma, for sharing this poem.

The above was written as a comment on the below blog’s post:



About soaringdragons

Twenty years and still alive--in China, that is. I write about China and the world of spirit--all very non-expertly--and whatever else strikes my fancy. You'll find posts on even days of the month.
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