enchant Medea ?
(To Terry)
I stand here, in the wings, 
Watching your words play together on the merry stage.
Rhymes and rhythms, tumble together laughing,
stick hard in my chest as undigested pain.

Some triumph of discipline, this - 
out of your lives,
out of your poems, 

I shift, eager perhaps to speak,
to act, to sing some song
which would enchant Medea,
or enslave a God,
or make you spit into a corner
with delight.

And then, ah then fall silent,
while the golden rose I have within
that does me for a heart,
rises and tries to bloom; 
for one moment flares
in joints and limbs
as burnished, punished life.

One moment more, I stand here
in the edge of dark,
loose at the edge of your stage.

Then turn. Arms full of your poems,
I return home to my dark.



(C) Copyright 1995
Alys Thorpe
All Rights Reserved
4 April 1995: 
       A very nervous Alice Thorpe finally brought  herself to post on the 
Scribble Echo. Envy was that poem, written, to all intents and purposes, online. 

9 November, 1999 
       Five years  later I dedicate this poem to someone who was then 'the dynamic organizer of the up and coming Cyber Poet's evening', and of whose poetry I had no great knowledge. In that time, because he has become a friend. I regard him as one of the most profound poetic talents and theorists I know.