Prompt: Maureen (https://www.napowrimo.net) invites us to get complex on Day 3 and write a “glosa” or glose. According to my musty old poetry handbook, this form dates to 15th century Spain and Portugal when subjects were quite pious, but when the French started writing this form, it transformed to parody and humor. I love that we write in a form that dates to the 15th century even though we may not do it that often. If you dare, try for the rhyme scheme requirement in which lines 6 and 9 rhyme with the final word of line 10.
The Poet and the Unicorn
“Prisoner at a desk? No, universe of feeling
where everything is seen, and nothing mine
. . . as if at times I could put out a hand
and touch the lion head, the unicorn.”
May Sarton
If I tap into that feeling bank
that overflows with heart pierces,
uncontrollable tears or hyena laughs, I meld with
oaks & Spanish Moss high in blue outside my window.
My painting of an animated palm tree
slaps the porch wall with each burst of wind
serenaded with chimes at a higher pitch.
Inside may be a hollow place
until it flips to fill my being.
Prisoner at a desk? No, universe of feeling.
*****
Before my imagination parades
a multi-colored kaleidoscope of
characters as if a Mardi Gras parade
or a merry-go-round
up, up, up, & down, down, & again down
before my mind’s eye—but not mine—
they are not mine, those many images &
characters who parade to an
unheard fife and drum, a scene
where everything is seen, and nothing mine.
*****
But does the knowledge that these
things are not mine keep me from
thinking, imagining to put out my hand?
To the branches high up & swaying moss
above my head, to wind that turns the ceiling fan,
wind that moves sunlight on my hand,
multi-hues of green Cherry leaves
turn transparent, magical & moving
on my page, like shifting sand
as if at times I could put out a hand.
*****
My left hand that does not write,
my curious hand that reaches & reaches more,
my wandering hand as if in dark
searches something tangible,
my planter’s hand to drop a seed &
cover with dark moist earth,
my gentle hand that longs to touch
the wild & the sensual with courage to
brace against naysayers’ scorn
and touch the lion head, the unicorn.
Jacquelyn Markham
April 3, 2022
Poet Voice 