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,
as calmly they watched in silence
the movements of the earth
and of the heavens,
with no demands to respond to.

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

-

* (While the work-shop format means little, we will nonetheless go along with it ironically. Quite like Marxism, it in practice just a load of dullards, and I feel it unreasonable to partake in it seriously.)