Jan Sand (February 2 1926 / USA)
Spelunking The Psyche
All hard lines, strong shapes
Bright colors, make escapes
To leave remains behind closed lids.
Dark sparkles, vague circles, pyramids
And glaucus forms that shimmer, shake
To part and make the path to snake
In tempting curves that beckon in -
Into miasmas, rubbled trails, widdershin
In halls of bone where eyes, where touch,
Where sound and smell sum to not much
To orient direction. Palaces of psyche here
Erect their towers. Powers form and disappear.
We have arrived at the gates
Where mind mingles with the fates.
Threads of silver, threads of gold,
Threads of diamond strung to hold
Baskets of conception, full
Of dripping luscious fruits that pull
Forth visions...blues and reds and greens,
Subtle shades, inbetweens
Encasing passions, joys and frights,
Sleepy loves, circus sights,
Twirling parasols and braying beasts,
Horrid things at nauseous feasts,
Dusty sawdust, acrid smells,
Crunchy berms of peanut shells.
Stacks of baskets packed with stones,
With crystal shapes, jagged bones,
Where shafts of light spear the air,
Ricochet in facet glare,
Speed away into sensation,
Pain diffused to adumbration,
Hints of chaos, hints of hell,
Cacophonic ringing bell
Tolling failure, soft confusion,
Flabby thoughts, odd illusion.
Sliding shapes, found or flat...
Not quite this, nor even that.
Sussurations hiss the walls.
Spectral sounds, muffled calls
Echo in, echo out,
Boosting murmurs to a shout.
Away from sounds, around the bend,
Tentacles of stench extend
And split and subdivide
To where fragrances reside.
Filaments of succulence
Explode to flocculence
Which shock through inhibitions
To reminiscent exhibitions
Where shattered memories clatter to the floor.
Sludges of nostalgia to shuffle through, ignore.
The final destination dissolves in fuzzy mist
For the locus of the self, a point, does not exist.
It=s thoroughly distributed,
The sum of all contributed.
A holographic spatter
Of activated matter
That cannot be dissected
From the meat where it=s erected.
So we tumble back out into the Sun
Not far from the point where we=ve begun.
Comments about this poem (Spelunking The Psyche by Jan Sand )
Top 500 Poems
The Road Not Taken
If You Forget Me
Still I Rise
Edgar Allan Poe
William Ernest Henley
Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening
I Know Why The Caged Bird Sings