Thou hast composed thy protean poem in world-syllables and galactic
lines in measured nanometres and magnaprosodies, of mini-meteors and
poly-pulsars; creations and dissolutions of multi-universes form the
cresting crescendos and runic refrains, with minute molecular rhythms
and grand cyclical rhymes.
Thou hast adorned thy wizardly prose and virtuoso verse with spaces
chiseled to curves and cubes, and multimodal forms of skies, seas,
earths, sapphirine, azurine, vernal, pastelled of thy contemplative
hues, punctuated with portraits of stunning still life and the
strummed moving one, too.
Like a child imitating mother, for how else would he adore her,
cooking leaves and grass on make-belief fires, do I seek to simulate
Thy omnigenous art in evernew games I invent to play in dire need of
love from Thee.
I daub and dabble, and diddle with the chisel, and try squeak notes
from my broken fiddle. From the unstable sands of tenuous times, by
seas of creative surging in thy currently enfleshed minds, I wish to
build monastic cells formed of music, a cloistered canvas, a
colour-infused cynosure. I call it a house for all Thy Muses wherein
from this day
with my play at art
do I Thee worship.
Like continents divided joining their hands underneath deep oceans,
seemingly now split from Thee I am perennially joined unto Thee. I
sing this song of our biune lovingness like Europa lured by
Zeus-bull, riding turtleback now on this shore. In her music-rustling
shawl's folds and wrinkles I vision magnified majestic monasteries
modeled whereafter do I build a humble house for all Thy Muses
wherein from this day
with my play at art
do I Thee worship.
I scribble unto Thee this perfunctory hymn in unshapely ungainly
letters, some even written dexter to sinister. I try to croon this
crudest lyric in discorded notes yet tearful tunes, of my heart's own
so oft-broken reeds in the garden of my thoughts where every so often
make-belief trees have grown sky-tall from prickly pebbles planted
for seeds. But wouldst Thou still, my celestial mother, dotingly
adoring Thy tiny toddler's doodles, fondly pat me on my little back.
Then bless me and make of me a true aesthete. Do come abide in my
a-building house for all Thy Muses wherein from this day
with my play at art
do I Thee worship.
In my monastery of Muses
with my hymnal art
in liturgies marble-chiseled
from this day shall I Thee
with Thine own beauty
aesthetically worship.
Footnote: Zeus drew Europa's attention by taking the form of a very
attractive bull. She rode it and he swam away with her into the sea.
There are different legends as to where he took her thereafter. She
has, however, arrived at this shore of the Atlantic underneath which
the two continents join hands. She now rides turtleback: the American
Indian name for this land means Turtle Island.