With apologies to S.T. Coleridge and Kubla Khan <br /> <br /> <br /> <br />Is there a crying in the forests of this soul? Divinity <br />Is failing? Or a dream has stretched the twining elasticity <br />Of thought beyond endurance? Or perhaps a fine stability <br />Was never meant to be - except in ruin. Brute sublimity <br />Requires the bright, the still, the lithic quelling of variety. <br /> <br />But this swaying veil of lock and eye, it shuts out equanimity, <br />Demands and reaches for a writhing dusk’s impossibility, <br />Tearing at reality to make a unanimity, <br />To bring together, fling apart the fabric of the unity <br />Of breast and thigh, the close-sheathing of minds, finding satiety <br />Only for fleeting moments. This wrenching, kind avidity <br />Gluts itself on trifles, greatness, in a mad affinity <br />For everything and nothing, swings and sings the night’s ability <br />To form, unform, to stir, to swim in, welter in plasticity- <br />Such is the dancing in the forests of this soul’s divinity.<br /><br />Richard Blanch<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/a-dionysiac-poetic-sensibility/
