Poetry: Destruction of the artist’s vision

Something that I wrote about Rilke, one of my favourite poets.


He could not swing

out of bed each day

while his vision flayed

into monofilaments

every motion a clause

breath slow as a bowl of roses

such sumptuous diversion

in the angle of a heel

the pursing of lips

amplified by all reflection


in the polished metal

and precocious gesture

of Italian film

so unlike

the drab documents

and forms

splayed under his hands

each day

reading the letters between his fingers

hoping they might form words

match with his

intricate arteries

he took his time

to perfect every fold

broke every subservient fibre

along his fingernail

as if he were

dragging along

the hinges of a phrase


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