Tags
Beauty, Consciousness, Creation, death, Fibonacci, Freedom, Humanity, Italy, liberation, Mathematics, meaning, Metaphor, metapoetic, perspective, philosophical, poem, poetry, postmodern, ROME, writing
LIBERO
drunk on the promise of liberation
I crafted this poem whose very premise,
if you would permit me to explain,
does to
this very topic
appertain
insofar as it proposes, argues,
steadfastly maintains,
that words
be the clay
out of which all
was made
not as complete fiat but
slowly, slowly: process
of trial
and error
the code pre-established, all
the systems set in place
(this
as sure as
triangles
are
triangular,
spirals
are spirals)
all done and dusted
tried and trusted
written into the
acid of
our DNA
and so
I salute you
creatures
of truth and beauty
and fib you not
Senor Fibonacci
loving the light in
your fair land with
its paramount city
leaving your own
carefully calculated
indelible impression
and
here is the very book
in which it is written
(the one we
contest, always argue over)
so much
blood in the
sand
of that arena
why is it
that beauty must
always contend with death
again
I hold up my
net
and trident
(or sword: for
pen
best metaphor,
best metonym)
so much
marble and gold
begging the eye
to look upward
redefine perspective, dream
of long-last freedom
drunk
on those
dreams
of
a future
on promise
of liberation
under which
eternal pressure
I do write
this poem
trying to
tie up
loose ends
get
opposites
to meet
square
all circles
such ironic that libero
the word I shamefacedly stole
is actually your own
