(For Kent)
Bells will herald welcome visitors
and pitchmen alike with no distinction.
Does Pisa's cold campanile announce
the presence of God or other gifts?
The moaning gong, the antiseptic
echo of a chime, the surgical pealing
of a siren, these are easy to heed
or attend. What of the mute
and the broken? What of the silent
knells, the subtle, small tinglings
that deliver news and warnings directly
to flesh without stinging the anvil?
Undiscovered wonders clamor between
the hammer blows. Does the tiny purple
bellflower blast through a tenor -- or toll
a suggestion by fingering the breeze?
© R. Jeffrey Roberts
About Me
- Jeff Roberts
- No one likes everything. We explore. We discover. We winnow. When young we are silly in our devotion to music. We pretend. We imitate our favorite artists. When Midnight Train to Georgia comes on the radio, I still turn into a Pip. Jimmy Buffet’s A Pirate Looks at Forty still touches me. I am similarly affected when I encounter good and great art and poetry. Joseph Cornell, Seamus Heaney, Louise Nevelson, Louise Gluck, Giorgio de Chirico, William Carpenter, Dali. When I see a Duchamp that nails it for me, I have the urge to windmill my arm like Pete Townshend. What if we let art and poetry sneak up on us like music? What if art came in 3 minute bursts and had a volume knob? What if?
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