The Red-Gold Fire Of Poetry Poem by Seshat Nibada

I’ve lived for poetry beyond my means
In the loneliest years of my life
Art sensitized me and isolated
My sacred philosophy, from my mortal strife

I’ve lived the saddest life, simply
To write a poem, a ‘statement of being’
That nothing could compare to
To make a seed that sounded human

To enhance my shortened years
I’ve lived for poetry, of another kind
An alchemy of altars as a moving
Word among bright trees, that shall

Mean nothing, but the transmutation
Of living years, echoed maple, shell, autumn
I’ve lived for poetry under the peacock-throated night
Felt and remembered her fires beneath

The dirty war-tainted muse, love rebels
From the molten dyes of the cruelest skies
I’ve lived for poetry, in utter defeat
And with the power of grass, walked on

As my feet touched the sea of bronze
With the copper red glimmer of lips
That traced my thoughts back to Egypt, back to Greece
Remembering always the fire, of poets before.