Ultraviolet Poetry
True poetry tries not to be a phrase
Or meaning, but a color God forgot
To make, a tint of blue perhaps, a phase
Of orange, that purple punctured Jesus sought
When vinegar in sponge was forced against
His lips and no one thought to drug the bruise
Or welt across his shoulder. God condensed
In fragrant syllables in singing ooze
Of tastes that hearts can yearn for but are lost
In lightning, that is what a poem haunts
Itself with. It is phantoms turned to frost.
It hinges on what virgin dreaming wants.
True poetry defies the needs of priests.
It conjures soul from blood of fire song beasts.
~ Phillip Whidden