Purple voices, rich and rare, Glowing in the jeweled air, Handling esoteric themes, Mysteries like running streams Dammed with unexpected care Into almost-answered prayer Where you’d think no calmness could In the wildest of the wood. Thoughts and unknown meanings dance, Wordwise weave you in a trance, Darkly glowing, rich and rare, Purple voices, glowing air.
This was first published in Candelabrum, the now-defunct journal dedicated to keeping formal/traditional poetry alive in the UK through the darkest days of free verse, i.e. from 1970 to 2010. I only discovered the magazine in 2004, better late than never–I had almost given up writing poetry, having been unable to publish anything at all up to that point. I remain grateful to its editor Leonard McCarthy, the Anglo-Irish formalist poet.
The knife of night
Spreads swirls of black and white
Over the slice of here.
The taste is bold:
A pinch of cold,
Spiced with primeval fear.
This little poem was first published in Candelabrum, a British print magazine that ran twice yearly from 1970 for some 40 years. Its editor, Leonard McCarthy, was a lone voice dedicated to keeping traditional poetic sensibilities of metrical and rhymed
The poem itself came from a nighttime ramble in the forests that cut through the residential areas of Chapel Hill, North Carolina. Hundreds of acres in town are undevelopable because of steep slopes, creeks and ravines. Where the night woods are unlit except by moon and stars, there are deer, possums, foxes, flying squirrels, owls… copperheads… poison ivy… The night is beautiful, but you can’t help moving through its darkness in a different state of being, compared with daylight.