But nobody chose to continue the thread:
Nobody knew what to do with such mead.
All that the talented nature could do
Was to lead itself slowly from form unto form;
Throw itself wholly from norm into norm,
Un-tormented by form, taking form by storm –
Subtle, gathering tact in the rhythm
That picks up a speed growing out of itself.
It pleads with the readable world for a shelf.
Talented person sits up in the bed,
Expressing the talent that sits in the head:
The dormant, fomented, the fearless and brave,
With rhythms insistent the gifted ones have,
He savors, he flavors. Carefully both.
There is the talent.
Which of us knows
The flowering from which
All talent grows?
Vines intertwined of meaning and form,
Life on the line,
Refining, defining
The scope of that chain of invention.
The Processes: Creative, Thinking, Meditative;
Arlene Corwin
Arlene Corwin Poetry 