October 2000 | back-issues, poetry, William B. Hunt
[b]A Richard Burton At The End Of The Twentieth Century[/b]
“I wish this spring a counterpoint to shudder through my memories of the sun,” said Richard Burton as the century closed. “I wish hymns to the twilight yielding unbroken stars.” Richard Burton stands in the ballroom of the Gilded Lion. The face of the planet wheels through December. Like a reckless alchemist, he sees night’s voice pointing north. He puts some thought and reason into seven sudden sharp golden notes that jar the hard shadows, a choral storm between nothingness and clusters of meteor petals, the beryl voice of a Christmas concert. The next century is martyred to the dulcimer.
October 2000 | back-issues, poetry, William B. Hunt
In a place I write called The Lyon’s Rage, I think of your bright hippie awareness telling me I am thinking nicely of her in fits of desperation. Worlds of beauty. The tree of stars. The sapience of workers. A spicule of Wagner, and in my heart Ysolde there is a small area of discourse that will save everyone some money and light, as if it were her very heart, Nicole’s very heart and tree of stars. Everyone loves her. Everyone loves her river song. It is as if everyone were endeared to lyrics I wrote at The Lyon’s Rage.
October 2000 | back-issues, poetry, William B. Hunt
The person in the teardrops of diaries, the person who writes government warnings, the person in the woodcut of age-old stars and a hundred years of wind–this person wears jewelry of black meteors tinted with opaque revolutions of the future, this person carries blue islands in sparkling hands and sees behind the shadow of my next syllable; this person has the smoking laughter scholarship. Dancers are clustered in our tresses and flower dreams, and they can taste the smoke from our turret on the lake of melodies, they give eloquence to the morning waltz and water inland wildflowers.
