Night is the underlying presence in both of this week’s poems.
The first is a sonnet (I seem to be writing a good many sonnets lately). The imagery comes from the effect of seeing thin clouds, a little darker than the dark night sky…
My sister kindly supplied the title as my invention had given out by the time I needed to name the piece. More often than not, I am woefully stymied by titles! My muse considers that everything was already said in the body of the poem and anything else is extraneous. Muses can be quite opinionated!
Here is the poem.
Paint the dark clouds across a moonless sky
Like pools of ink dripped by a dampened brush–
One wielded by an ancient sage; a hush
Still lingers round the skillful strokes, where lie
Long years of mastery. We may descry
The faintly feathered black of leaves, just flush
Against the flat of night, a hint of lush
Late summer; then a few flecks, small and high,
Of stars–the white of paper showing through
The night-black hues of ink. Thus summer draws
Her own great scroll across the skies, with view
Of vastnesses just glimpsed near midnight’s pause;
We see her ink-black artistry imbue
The very air; we hush in mute applause.
The second poem is a haiku from an even darker night. But the night was clearly inhabited!
Is the night empty?
Off in the blackness I hear
chirping of a bat.
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