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Pale Western Star: The Poetry of Robin Devoe
Paperback
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ISBN13: 9798761677067
Publisher: Independently Published
Published: Jun 28 2022
Pages: 112
Weight: 0.28
Height: 0.27 Width: 5.00 Depth: 8.00
Language: English
Publisher: Independently Published
Published: Jun 28 2022
Pages: 112
Weight: 0.28
Height: 0.27 Width: 5.00 Depth: 8.00
Language: English
Fresh, diverse lyric poetry from Robin Devoe. Select excepts follow: From the title poem Pale Western Star
Scene 3: This Ride Was My Delight
Julian: Riding...yes, we go a journey
Looking for what? We do not worry
lest the wishful thing flee
or melt beneath too eager a gaze. Cycling, we watch; talking, we feel
Scene 3: This Ride Was My Delight
Julian: Riding...yes, we go a journey
Looking for what? We do not worry
lest the wishful thing flee
or melt beneath too eager a gaze. Cycling, we watch; talking, we feel
here we live without reflection,
each moment one fresh draught
of what the universe thinks we ought
to be feeding our souls. And be this pain -
or pleasures too rough and wild to contain
is no choice for us, but for Destiny a dream:
Cast forever beyond what we seem. Pristina Aventis
Togather we, beneath crystalline acclivity
Rave o'er this other, 'pon pillow bedewed:
And quick-rills sing your rhinis trimbles;
And Gankerings whimwelp long, soft chindles
As the ming-phyres sink beyond purpureal twills... Lark! Ho, the cries of Alatia poetously rise,
Wisping to Luna in half-mad surmise
Of a night passing through chronos pantillate -
The intimate vespers of nectarous busqueda,
Alive, prequacious... yet interminable -
As ever and on endless lovers dream. The Walk
Feeling still the ripples,
Your touch sent toward distant lands;
Still the echoes of rapture, lapping
Upon those sacred sands:
That farthest horizon within
Is not known...
Until we walk there unalone. From Overture
I. The Season of Light.
Includes many early poetic ventures, dabbled upon whilst riding that wild current of twilight coursing thru deep, cerulean nights - that summer light, that luminous gloam, seeming bred especial for the boreal lands where Nature unveils her most beautiful soul, her most sacred countenance. Cycling the fringe of the blue dreaming land of Turnagain, of eighties Spenard - the entire city slept, while at half past two in the morning, riders alone feel the mysterious, powerful love of the western horizon's twitterlight as a presence most palpable. That light was proof of the Divine, Her window toward what mortals may perceive of perfection. Casting eyes upon that horizon for hours on end, filled with an intense, glorious rapture beyond understanding - these secret times, the most joyous of an age, soul buoyed toward what strange and lovely height?
Most beauty-filled - these vague, dreamlike, lisping works: the Poetical Mindswirl. Genesized after exposure to Carroll's Jabberwocky and Joyce's Finnegan's Wake, within this style we strain to see the trellis-work supporting those dreaming spires, most delicate and beautiful - and just as we think a tiny sphere of infinite beauty pinnacles atop some sublime steeple, one blink brings her tumbling down from heaven. Some tumble gloriously: subtle intimations of ideal beauty lingering aloft the wreckage.
each moment one fresh draught
of what the universe thinks we ought
to be feeding our souls. And be this pain -
or pleasures too rough and wild to contain
is no choice for us, but for Destiny a dream:
Cast forever beyond what we seem. Pristina Aventis
Togather we, beneath crystalline acclivity
Rave o'er this other, 'pon pillow bedewed:
And quick-rills sing your rhinis trimbles;
And Gankerings whimwelp long, soft chindles
As the ming-phyres sink beyond purpureal twills... Lark! Ho, the cries of Alatia poetously rise,
Wisping to Luna in half-mad surmise
Of a night passing through chronos pantillate -
The intimate vespers of nectarous busqueda,
Alive, prequacious... yet interminable -
As ever and on endless lovers dream. The Walk
Feeling still the ripples,
Your touch sent toward distant lands;
Still the echoes of rapture, lapping
Upon those sacred sands:
That farthest horizon within
Is not known...
Until we walk there unalone. From Overture
I. The Season of Light.
Includes many early poetic ventures, dabbled upon whilst riding that wild current of twilight coursing thru deep, cerulean nights - that summer light, that luminous gloam, seeming bred especial for the boreal lands where Nature unveils her most beautiful soul, her most sacred countenance. Cycling the fringe of the blue dreaming land of Turnagain, of eighties Spenard - the entire city slept, while at half past two in the morning, riders alone feel the mysterious, powerful love of the western horizon's twitterlight as a presence most palpable. That light was proof of the Divine, Her window toward what mortals may perceive of perfection. Casting eyes upon that horizon for hours on end, filled with an intense, glorious rapture beyond understanding - these secret times, the most joyous of an age, soul buoyed toward what strange and lovely height?
We call this most exquisite twilight, tinging the sky deep within the boreal half-night and all the sweet feelings that constellate around it (including, it seems, some of the strongest and noblest feelings of which humans are capable) - We name this divine hint of heaven the Fleeting Azurine. It's a permeating coda in such poems as Twilight, Heaven's Faintest Star, luniversal lispers, and Horizon Dream. Past Her Purple Hills may offer the purest illustration of this theme: sunset, the horizon, the sky's tincture - painted with a tenderness of feeling, with a sweet, sad tone of an emotion approaching the divine.
III. Poetical MindswirlMost beauty-filled - these vague, dreamlike, lisping works: the Poetical Mindswirl. Genesized after exposure to Carroll's Jabberwocky and Joyce's Finnegan's Wake, within this style we strain to see the trellis-work supporting those dreaming spires, most delicate and beautiful - and just as we think a tiny sphere of infinite beauty pinnacles atop some sublime steeple, one blink brings her tumbling down from heaven. Some tumble gloriously: subtle intimations of ideal beauty lingering aloft the wreckage.
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