Garden party, sunlit--
Praying mantis, lurking
Under walnut leaves,
Swivels its head--
Glass and silver rattle
Under voices.
A time to receive.
A time of choices.
Sea fog glides in,
Golden monkeys clinging
To its clouds
Chattering, upset.
I set down my drink.
My dear, it's time
To leave, I think.
Thanks! I immediately relate. It's salubrious when there -is- someone to check my "chattering, [and being] upset, [who will see that] I set down my drink. [And say;] "My dear, it's time/To leave, I think.'
ReplyDeletePardon the paraphrase! But I caught this in that flash of recognition. Thanks again!
Your paraphrase is terrific, Will. It is indeed healthy to identify with monkeys, and yes, Jungian --the cloud-riding monkeys were from a dream. But poem was made from sorrow, yet another friend got buried this morning --I shall be glad when this lethal decade closes-- and was meant as elegy. I prefer your take because there is joy in it, as there's joy in you. But you see why nobody sober ever asks me to write funeral poems.
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