Eyjafjallajokull
What quarrel can I have with her
Who blackens all those lovely skies? --
Let all her heated belly quake,
And let her plumes the world surprise!
She's violent, yes, I understand,
But she's to me creative strife:
That molten heart that molds our world
Contributes to my very life.
So let her fill the ocean sky
With chalky pitch and billows grey,
For all it is to me is art
Displayed on Iceland's darkened day.
-jwm
*pronounced: aye - ya - fyah - dla - jow - kudl
What quarrel can I have with her
Who blackens all those lovely skies? --
Let all her heated belly quake,
And let her plumes the world surprise!
She's violent, yes, I understand,
But she's to me creative strife:
That molten heart that molds our world
Contributes to my very life.
So let her fill the ocean sky
With chalky pitch and billows grey,
For all it is to me is art
Displayed on Iceland's darkened day.
-jwm
*pronounced: aye - ya - fyah - dla - jow - kudl
3 comments:
...
I'd rather be alive and stuck
In Heathrow or in Singapore
Than never to have lived at all
Because I shun an active core
The odd or extraordinary (though perhaps to many rather disturbing) thing about the romantic poet is that he can see meaningfulness, beauty and justice where others see only senseless tragedy or evil; and from it create something unexpectedly pleasing or soothing.
Wow ... your very comment is poetic. Thank you, Obiterspeak, for the wisdom behind those words.
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