Poetry by Robert Covelli of Santa Fe, New Mexico The Society November 2, 2012 Poetry 1 Comment Street Idyll Calm is she who sits in white Because the source of her delight, Wherein the street relucts to sound Its violence, is so profound. Her subtle philosophic sense Of something new and near and tense Inspires, in her concentration, Promises of stimulation. But cavalcades across the street Of children urgent in retreat From trenchant villains who profane The mind, provoke in her a strain. The sound of innocence her realm Of innocence may overwhelm Unless the cause of ill, in black, Accomplish his enraged attack. Or: if metaphysical debates, Which she calmly contemplates, Are woven well into the braid Of arts whose arguments persuade. But she, who by the children stands And subtly interlocks the strands Of laws which beauty radiates, In crisis, seems to hesitate. Courage, wisdom, cunning, or will Are useless as a daffodil Against a blackening sky of storm, Unless the golden sun grows warm. Indeed! A light, a change of gears On a mechanical face, appears, Repeats her smile, albeit strange, Which reciprocates his change. His raging at the children tells Of stifled reach, which, as her swells Into a terror just as great, Their persons interpenetrate. His scorn for the spontaneous, If moderate, maliciousness Of children trembles, frets and dies In her rage consuming eyes. Then the juvenescent motion Of ascensional devotion Spreads throughout the neighborhood The triumph of the heart of good. When the children pass, she raises Up her eyes to thank their praises, Who never seeks to live above The street, but in it, with her love. Second Street Once when Spring just freshly arrived With her minstrel band of precursors That beckon a drowsy April alive To approaching loves and ancient lores One manchild enlightened his pace That blindly held his steps before When he heard of the song of his childhood place Whose distance rubbed his ankles sore Where he found an avenue of trees In blossom where he’d lost his home Whose memories sang in minstrel leaves Where April danced whence he had come Song Splendid is a splendid word Sang the speckled mockingbird. Sang he once, green, gold and blue: Splendid hint and subtle hue. Sang he then a silver mist: Stream of daylight, light and list. Sang of silk upon a flower, Splendid footfalls on the hour. Sang he, a timid sighing voice Springs from silk to song to choice. Splendid silence sunlight stirred, Sang the speckled mockingbird. Robert Covelli is a poet living in Santa Fe, New Mexico These poems are among the entries for the Society of Classical Poets’ 2012 Poetry Competition. NOTE TO READERS: If you enjoyed this poem or other content, please consider making a donation to the Society of Classical Poets. NOTE TO POETS: The Society considers this page, where your poetry resides, to be your residence as well, where you may invite family, friends, and others to visit. Feel free to treat this page as your home and remove anyone here who disrespects you. Simply send an email to email@example.com. Put “Remove Comment” in the subject line and list which comments you would like removed. The Society does not endorse any views expressed in individual poems or comments and reserves the right to remove any comments to maintain the decorum of this website and the integrity of the Society. Please see our Comments Policy here. CODEC News:Share this:Click to share on Twitter (Opens in new window)Click to share on Facebook (Opens in new window)Click to print (Opens in new window)Click to share on LinkedIn (Opens in new window)Click to share on WhatsApp (Opens in new window)Click to email this to a friend (Opens in new window)Click to share on Pinterest (Opens in new window) One Response neal Whitman November 2, 2012 Confession: Am jealous of Robert — highly skilled in prose and poetry. This set of poems and his novels prove him so. Can he sing too? Would not be surprised because his poem, “Song,” is truly lyrical. I will whistle his tune as I skip (well drive over the hill) to Robinson Jeffers Tor House in Carmel this morning to give tours. Amicus poeticae, Neal Whitman Reply Leave a Reply Cancel ReplyYour email address will not be published.CommentName* Email* Website Notify me of follow-up comments by email. Notify me of new posts by email. Δ This site uses Akismet to reduce spam. Learn how your comment data is processed.