There are two systems of poetry—one
that is alive to the cosmic divine feminine
and the other that isn’t—being dead to it.
Consequently, the other is hardly poetry at all.
At the Ox Ford beneath Mount Jiuhua
that has nine-fold glories as hold for us
Mnemosyne’s Muses, Li Bai went
and with his hand he sought to grasp
the arche of the Divine Feminine
in her earthly presence, path, and end
in the owl-light and chiaroscuro clouds
by the silver shiver of tugging Luna’s bar
with her likeness and yen in gliding signs
which the river stream purified up high
as well as deep below picked and plonked
as shiny nacre grows round our exiled hearts.
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