The Rites Of Spring (and virgin poetry)

This older poet sits astride a mound of
ringing compliments – a monument in
passive style, a massive pile of eager words
derived from easy, simple scenes

that rarely varied, verse to verse, pastoral
hearse of poetry in hackney themes
with flowers that burst in gaudy showers
of gleaming gossamer, fleshed the eyes,

take sinuses by wild surprise, to cloy
in senses openness with stunning wealth
of trance-like feline stalker’s stealth,
---and leave the reader short of breath.

Yes she was good; her way with words
is legendary still today, and though she
rarely writes per se her thoughts are free,
scattered in the rites of spring and virgin poetry.
© I.D. Carswell 2007