I remember the Poison Tree
by William Blake,
possessed by an Evil Spirit
when it was admiration
and appreciation of the fruits
which grew
despite the poisoned soil.
As tears we are
from trees, in mussels, as rain or snow
as vapour or the tip of a flame ---
is it round or stretched, shattered
bent or curved it matters not.
But that's the danger of Solomon
prone to jealousy
so stomping down on ambition
tox-in the wells,
making straight fences when
nature is crooked
it wasn't yours to begin with.
As life blossoms,
as we shapeshifted by the shades,
not as flowers or plants ---
but as the mistakes, variations
of nature as we adapted.
Much like these verses, Blake
influenced me,
is it unique, pastiche - copy-cat -
does it matter
if it's a joyous song of creation,
to see thy neighbour
flourish from seed to fruits?
As love of poetry
the question is not how it was given
but -stood to receive.---
that a black pearl was then cast
into the heaps and piles. |