White though simple carries every colour.
Glory – small word – is manifold.
Break apart light and find prismatic wonder.
None of this has words.
What then? What sounds can be made to stir hearts?
The Word – singular yet many pleats,
Many rooms – beams and breathes from beginning.
How can we reveal?
We cannot. Only delight. The revealing is done
So revel, marvel. Stand back in amaze.
No tweet. In an instant, a gram of this can be lost
Yet Glory’s weight compels.
Throw off light and momentary. Minds explode with triune truth.
Saying is simple; sound has many ripples.
Light waves and darts and ruins categories.
Your first and only crime was to ignore true Glory.
Stop. Be blown away.
Marianne Moore is both an intriguing and a daunting poet to imitate. Her poems, visually and linguistically, dance in complexity and variety, and her subject matter is often both fascinating and impenetrable. Today’s poem is based on “In the Days of Prismatic Colour“, a wonderful meditation on Creation, complexity and simplicity. I offer it tentatively, but happy to have survived the challenge.
At the First Dawn of Brightness (After "In the Days of Prismatic Colour")
when seasons and order were only yet imagined,
impressions in the Creator's mind, the spirit
hovered over waters deep,
the plan a temple in His heart, a stool
for feet to rest beneath Heaven's radiance; the light
of first-dawn being, time and space instantly conceived,
and domes there waiting for division, no ribs yet and no
apples there for eating; and colour
hummed at first acquaintance with the light, its purpose
soon to be unveiled: water blue like baby's clothing,
Heaven thick, its door ajar, the light from it refracting
over domes and oceans and the parting of ideas,
and celebrations declared when
the lights, large and small, appeared in the sky,
marking out our days and giving rhythm, pace and tone,
while colour grew in the teeming oceans and over
Leviathan on his frolicking back, the texture
of water atop the scales of skin
and flesh, each according to its various kinds: this was
the season declared by the first dawn of brightness,
when shade was a new language and nothing was known
but the days given order and purpose within every
breath of soft life, when our
wisdom had not learned to eat its own fruit, and spring
was silent punctuation. There colour hovered,
potential unrealised but tranquil: a tone, a hand,
a promise that when white was spoiled, there would be
other words, like red,
on hand, and spectrum-bows in place of floods.