We poets are made of silver...

We poets are made of silver. Silver of the moon,
And gems of great worth; brought from the depths of earth,
To adorn our golden collars, and our long stately limbs.

Not out of cold clay were we made, nor cast in common mould -
Let the earth keep its silence; we will still hear it sing
And praise and eulogise us, just as we praise and eulogise it.

Nor out of bronze nor iron were we made; for not in wrath
Were the Gods when they wrought us, not as vessels of wrath were we made;
To some they poured fury, but to us only the song that can not be sung.

Nor out of gold fashioned, and neither with diamonds studded,
For what could we hope to do, who are less than butterflies,
Or songbirds and dragonflies? To lie, and hope it endured time.

No, for we were the intricacies of silver, whose eternal love-song
Is a breath over water; who were tailored with much love,
To verse, for wit and fury, and hope that wit and fury endure.

Ode on reading Borges

O' Sage! O' Borges! Poet of twilight,
Philosopher of twilight, your voice is cold,
As is the memory of snow; warm, as is daylight;
You've brought us sight, and deep dreams of old.

I'd vow adoration, or speak of my illumination,
But words are insufficient, and would fail me;
So allow me relate a picture, a sudden elation,
Which once, unexpected, did appear to me.

I'd closed the covers of labyrinths, when in the sky,
At that moment, among the vast white clouds,
A rift was opened, whence forms unknown to eye
Poured forth, in an unruly and unending crowd.

Some spoke in languages long dead, and others,
Were singing like sirens, in that sweet voice,
That though unheard of, we all recognised as brothers;
And they jeered at me, in signs of strange rejoice.

Then came the images; an exaggerated man
Was chased by a tiger, and then the form of compass,
Which showed time, and all the course it since had ran,
And finally, a gallery of abstractions made of glass.

The colours were many; I could not recognise all,
And so were sounds: screeches and harmonies,
Which brought fear and awe and signs of thrall,
And lingered long after the procession had ceased.

Then the gate was closed; but who could tell,
Whether it had spanned the sky, or some puny site,
Where he had located this heaven and hell,
And which was but magnified by some unknown rite?

I do not know; truthfully, it is of no importance;
I promised elation, but like any feeling of skin,
It has faded, as are the memories of that circumstance,
Only doubt remains, unplacated. I attribute it to him.

Extempore

Every age has its monsters,
Dragon-like or hydra-headed

Draped in human skin,
In guise of a man or a woman

Falsehoods in common mind,
Sweet favours and promises

Sugar-tongued and transparent,
Not hunch-backed nor ugly

But Chimera-like,
Carried on shoulders of the wise

Able to withstand sunlight,
With a genuine mirror image

There is no shame nor doubt,
Neither in the carried nor carriers

Yet shattered and broken,
In the presence of moonlight

Though replicate like men,
In broods and in great number

In successive generations
They bear no resemblance to their elders

Nor quite genuine in hindsight,
But like chameoleons on their day

Though every age has had its laugh,
It's always been bit too late.