Are The Still Points Of The Quartered Seasons Poem by James Whitworth

Are the still points of the quartered seasons
That light the dawns which count down to our birth,
A singular malfunction of design
Which holds within its eye all time condensed;
A transitory cycle in repeat.
Until such permutation’s breath be spent,
These forces seen to dominate descent
Are the still points of the quartered seasons.

Are the still points of the quartered seasons,
Once sang in quatrains to the ocean’s roar,
Writhing weak at the sun-seared compass edge
Where woven echoes quarrel fierce then fall
On bended knee before the broken-jawed
Who numb them swiftly to a sombre end;
Which judges, though histories may contend,
Are the still points of the quartered seasons.

Are the still points of the quartered seasons
Seen seldom here between these numbered days
To conjure from the widowed mouths, in song,
A verse of praise which may in turns be worn
Upon a newborn breast or coffined hide;
An epilogue the poet’s voice may hark
When what he has occasion to remark
Are the still points of the quartered seasons.

Are the still points of the quartered seasons
Suspended from a backward-spinning sun
Who, from my face, cremates the deadened years
And melts from my mind’s-eye measures of age,
To drown them wholly in a saltless sea.
The labours of this beaded sweat shall hide,
That moments where, unconscious, I reside
Are the still points of the quartered seasons.