A Poem about Calming

A commenter recently noted that a poem of ours was "calming." In the cavalier spirit of literary 'workshopping,' we shall write a poem based around their response to our poem. This will hopefully compensate for not editing the poem itself to be more calming (yet), which would be unfortunate on a blog*. So, here is a poem about 'calming,' based therefore around random feedback.

Calm

The seagull dances
over the cascading waves
in time,
and they all blur
into one action.

The leaf draws
itself to a point,
then opens itself
for stray rain.

The light in a leaf
illuminates
as though in the leaf
were a calm fire.

The habitat of birds
is the open sky,
empty,
far-away,
like a promise.

Calm hides in the
inter mundia
like light.

The fire of an ancient sacrifice,
it was said,
flared in the eyes of the gods,
so calm can watch in silence
the movements of the clouds
and of the heavens,
with no demands to respond to.

Calm can be infinite,
like an open grave
kept vampiric ally open.

Indeed, calm is so close
to this order
that it shelters in distant caves,
as poetry hides in reeds,
with a funereal pallour.
What gives it this?

-

* (While the work-shop format means little, as it abstracts from the people involved and expects to have a reasonable format without this, we nonetheless must act in its spirit due to the commands of the Muses or something probably. Obviously, in a capitalist context the others are enemies. You should not trust them, as them advising you to basically go and kill yourself if it suits them would be essentially what you are accepting. The whole thing is shrouded in deception, and can mostly be ignored. Somehow creative writing is a more emptily pious field than Catholicism.)