Poem ("The world is weighted...")
JOHN C. BEATTY
'THE SUNS RETIRE
Pick up the sea bird, Dardanella,
Mend you the wing;
To broken rocks and the salt spray
No sorrows cling.
Booted white tunicked attendants
Bear the sun fiercely
Spitted on silver swords beyond
The vagrant sea;
Bearded Eurasians darkly hail
The rising fire,
And the West stares at its seared hands
As the suns retire.
POEM
The world is weighted, drawn, and sharp
As the hollow tip of a rattler's fang.
The scent of pine, the stench of rotting carp,
Run up the nostril, prick it with the twang
And scratch of sand poured softly on a drum
Stretched taut into an agonizing hum.
Structure
21 lines · 4 stanzas