Yet the word, maestro, can suffice

Yet the word, maestro, can suffice for itself:
O Primitive flintknife to pierce the corpus
of silence;  & songs torn out of barbarous heart
must observe limits of its own infernal hurt

Maestro, if words are weak, so must colours
that dazzle eyes, music that tames imperial Saul—
Everything is but violation of silence which
spits outs words, colours & musical chords

Yet, maestro, let craft be.  Order is the rule
of disorder, limit in the limits of the void
where stalk invisible leopards snarling like Stoics

O astral galleys that row through dark starholes
steered by rudders of their own Piri Reis & geometry
like blinded prophets stumbling about the planetoids

From Collection/ Rosary of Summer, 1977

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This entry was posted in POETRY OF EDEL GARCELLANO, selected by G.Y. Guillermo. Bookmark the permalink.

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