Poetic Magic by John F Keane

No stage required, no  
Trained skills or costly 
Instruments, no sable  
Brushes, oil paints or  
Easels needed; just pen  
Page and soul bonded 
In passionate union 
 
Sparks of expression 
Blowing across centuries 
From Troy to twitter 
From Peterloo to Ypres 
Transcending politics 
Gender and faith yet 
All of these and more
 
Mesmeric torch of truth 
Passed mind to mind  
Most intimate record of  
Living minds in history 
Screaming in attic diaries 
Of battles and atrocities  
Leaping from clay tablets 
Swept by Levantine sands
Calling from worn epitaphs 
In long-forgotten tongues 
Unlocked by scholars from 
Walls of silent hieroglyphs 
A questing Mistral always 
And forever seizing Now  
 
Believe me not? Why, feel 
These dappled shadows, this  
Aspen foliage turning through 
One burnished afternoon;  
Hear busy sparrows thrum, 
Soft calls of tumbling youth; 
See an iridescent green-bottle 
Shimmer on warm sandstone, 
A squirrel’s long-dead eye  
Restored again, brimming with 
Liquid brightness. Consider 
The timeless viridian of epic 
Autumn lawns; the kind lisp  
Of temperate breezes in late 
September of the Plague Year.