I had not thought of violets late, The wild, shy kind that spring beneath your feet In wistful April days, when lovers mate And wander through the fields in raptures sweet. The thought of violets meant florists’ shops, And bows and pins, and perfumed papers fine; And garish lights, and mincing little fops And cabarets and soaps, and deadening wines. So far from sweet real things my thoughts had strayed, I had forgot wide fields; and clear brown streams; The perfect loveliness that God has made,— Wild violets shy and Heaven-mounting dreams. And now—unwittingly, you’ve made me dream Of violets, and my soul’s forgotten gleam.
Alone in the library room, even when others Are there in the room, alone, except for themselves: There is the illusion of peace; the air in the room Is stilled; there are reading lights on the tables, Looking as if they’re reading, looking as if They’re studying the text, and understanding,
Shedding light on what the words are saying; But under their steady imbecile gaze the page Is blank, patiently waiting not to be blank.
The page is blank until the mind that reads Crosses the black river, seeking the Queen Of the Underworld, Persephone, where she sits
By the side of the one who brought her there from Enna, Hades the mute, the deaf, king of the dead letter; She is clothed in the beautiful garment of our thousand
Close your eyes.Fall. Let her catch you; if she doesn’t, know that there’s no intention to break your trust, but unconsciously keep a better promise through a deep dive into your psyche.
Close your eyes. Listen. Even when your eyes are open, you can feel her screaming in your most vulnerable places; your gut and your heart. Relentlessly, she struggles against your consciousness that is almost convinced to ignore her and instead let outside forces have the final say.