Jonathan ROBIN

Freshman - 581 Points (22 September / London)

Sic Transit - Poem by Jonathan ROBIN

Sudden summer laughter wave lift-drifts. Lush vale
stirs startled, sweating afternoon. Echo's no avail,
for sounds are swiftly smothered, as if some spider’s veil
Present, Past, Hereafter, threads, cocooning mortal wail.

Slowly drifting over sun-sparkling sylvan stream’s
springs and falls, bright sunlit halls, where silver salmon teems,
that fisher’s mind recalls far larger than his life-size dreams.
Scene subtle, suddenly disturbed, is smashed to smithereens.

Beasts tied to dry land try Time’s patience, thresher’s flail,
Brash bipeds too, though new, shall pass, ~ such small detail, ~
their lice must perish too, should spiders tell spun tale?
Arachnidae survive where flies die, race over, trace trails fail.

The crush-rush mortals know no wind-blown stones record
when hush dawn’s blushing show will welcome silence sans discord...

(23 March 1975 revised 3 August 2007,27 May 2008 robi03_0053)

For previous versions see below
Sic Transit
Sudden summer laughter wave lift-drifts through lush vale,
stirs, startles afternoon; - echo of no avail,
for sounds are smothered soon, as if some spider’s veil
Present, Past, Hereafter, surrounds â€" cocoons prevail.

Slowly drifting over sun-sparkling sylvan stream’s,
springs and falls, sunlit halls, where silver salmon teems
that fisher’s mind recalls far larger than his dreams, -
scene one sun, supernova, flash beams to smithereens.

Beasts tied to dry land try Time’s patience, thresher’s flail;
Brash bipeds too, though new, shall pass, ~ such small detail, ~
their lice must perish too, will insects tell their tale?
Who’d fly shall also die, race over, trace trails fail.

The crush, the rush, we know, what wind-blown stone records
when hush dawn’s blushing show welcomes without discord...?

(3 August 2007)

Sic Transit Gloria Mundi
Scented summer laughter, softly sifting through the vale,
stirs the silence sixty seconds, though all to no avail,
as the sound is swiftly smothered, as if by spider’s veil.

Slowly drifting over the rushing mountain streams, -
those springs and falls, the sunlit halls, where silver salmon teems, -
in which for scaly fare oft search the fearsome fishing teams.

Birds fly through sky, beasts try dry land, too soon both trails must fail,
brash bipeds too, though still so new, will pass, ~ such small detail, ~
leaving their lice to linger on, insects to tell their tale!

(23 March 1975)


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Poem Submitted: Saturday, August 5, 2006

Poem Edited: Thursday, February 16, 2012


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