What is a Trisect?

The trisect is a three-part poetic form that is inspired by its visual counterpart, the tryptych. I wanted to use the concept of the tryptych as a vehicle for developing my use of verbal depiction, but I found this difficult when I attempted to do so without a solid framework to work from. So, after much thought, I created the rules by which such a poem—which I named the trisect—would be written.

It is not very often that a poetic form has semantic requirements beyond that of repeating a few words or phrases, such as with the sestina or villanelle. But, since I wanted to use this form to make a detailed study of verbal depiction over an extended period of time, I realized that there should be several semantic requirements designed to obstruct the natural tendency toward prosaic exposition, a trap that even the most seasoned poets find difficult to escape.

As such, I could see that the trisect should never attempt to sell an idea or explain a concept, whether that concept be a personal experience or the interpretation of any material or mental object. It should, however, thoroughly exercise and develop ones powers of observation, a sense of relational association between things, and the use of depictive and metaphoric language.

So the trisect should never explain itself to the reader or give itself away. The goal, then, would be to depict observations and experiences using only imagery and metaphor. This provides the reader with a way of interpreting the words purely from his or her own experience rather than, as is customary, being told what to think, feel, and believe about them. I could see that as I write my verbal tryptych I should, as far as possible, use depiction in such a way as to obfuscate my own interpretation of what is being portrayed so that the words create a series of visually (sensationally) depicted associations from my observations, with a special focus on particular objects, from which the reader can derive his or her own experience.

The success of a trisect poem with a given reader, then, would be gauged by the level of interest he or she takes in it, the degree of significance he or she ascribes to it, and how potent or powerful an experience he or she has with it. If the reader has a vivid, memorable experience despite the abstract nature of the language, then I think something went right. With this in mind, I developed the rules of the trisect form with the hope of maximizing such potential.

Form

The trisect poem is defined by both structural and semantic rules. The structural rules are intended simply to create an appropriate, adaptable frame for the trisect’s content. I think this is important because they create a challenge that forces the poet to rise to the occasion, inspiring a conscious refinement of language and flow. The semantic rules are essential to the depictive nature of the form. Without them the poet can just say whatever he or she feels and thinks without actually exercising the use of verbal depiction, which is the entire point behind the form. These rules are also intended to promote the use of abstract language, which should create a surrealist feel, thus ensuring a strong, visually potent verbal tryptych. So bear this in mind as you study the rules below, whether you’re reading this article to better understand the idea behind the form or to learn how to try your own hand at it.

Structural rules

The trisect is always titled.

It is organized into three individual poems that I refer to as segments.

Each segment is always subtitled.

There are four stanzas in each segment.

Each stanza must be a tercet or a quatrain.

Each line must be between two and seven feet long (dimeters to heptameters).

These rules provide a canvas and a frame for the word-painting without being overly restrictive. A segment can be 12 to 16 lines long, and lines can be two to seven feet long. This allows for brevity by using only tercets with shorter lines, but it also permits the necessary space to complete a more complex depiction by allowing quatrains to be used with longer lines. If you are uncertain about the use of meter, you can visit my articles on verbal meter, starting with “Discovering the Iamb and the Trochee”.

Now for the semantic rules, which are far more restrictive, but provide the real meat for the purposes of this form.

Semantic rules

No first person personal pronouns may be used anywhere in the poem.

First person personal pronouns such as I, me, my, mine, and myself may not be used anywhere in the poem. This includes the title and subtitles. The same goes for inclusive personal pronouns such as we and ours.

If you have to use such personal pronouns to express something, then you should use another poetic form or free verse to do so. These pronouns generally are only used to express romantic ideals or personal feelings and opinions. The language of the trisect is not at all romantic or self-expressive, but depictive—And purely depictive.

Segment one depicts an item without naming it.

As far as possible, use imagery and metaphor to depict a given item of focus without naming it. This is by no means limited to mere visual descriptions. To truly depict something, the brain must stretch (sometimes painfully) to include other sorts of information about it. Such information can include the item’s textures, smells, environment, history, development, behavior, relation to other items and time, and much more. The observations used to depict the item will be colored by your own perception, experience, and understanding of it. This is only way self-expression comes into play, which will happen one way or the other in each of the three segments.

To help clarify, read the first segments of each of the following trisect poems in relation to what their items of focus are:

Poem Title
Segment One Focus
cardboard
modern canoe
figurine of a raven
the LEGO brick

Segment two depicts a more complex item without naming it.

The item of focus for segment two is only more complex in relation to the item of focus for segment one. So, the item depicted by segment one can itself be complex, but the item depicted by segment two must be—or at least seem to be—more complex.

If segment one depicts a flower petal, for instance, then segment two could depict the flower itself because it is more complex by comparison. For another example, if segment one depicts the earth, then segment two could depict the sun, the solar system, or the galaxy because any of these would be more complex by comparison.

Again, to help clarify ways of depicting something without naming it, I recommend reading segment two from each the same poems:

Poem Title
Segment Two Focus
the automobile
the Yukon river—so by extension, “a river”
a raven
the LEGO construct—things made from legos

Segment two includes a reference to the item depicted by segment one.

This is of course done without naming it. The reference can be vague and peculiar to your own experience and understanding. Going back again to the four poems, I’ll illustrate key phrases from their second segments which reference the item depicted by the first:

Poem Title
Excerpt
Reference Type
“… an alley’s dirt”
location
“a fleck of lost humanity”
relational metaphor
“… / where … an icon lures”
location and metaphor
“Imagination …”
application and association

Segment three depicts an event or process without naming it.

This is the crux of the trisect. Generally speaking, the items depicted in the first and second segments are in some way associated with or involved in the event or process depicted by the third segment. Again, and I can’t stress this enough, the depicted event or process may not be named—directly denoted.

For instance, if you are depicting a car accident, you would not use any words that could be part of a direct denotation of the event, like “car”, “automobile”, “wreck”, or “accident”—Words found in such denotive phrases as “automobile accident” or “car wreck”. Instead, the language will focus on depicting individual, potentially telling elements and aspects of the event or process. This could involve phrases such as, “crushing contact”, “black lightning struck”, “chrome bending shock”—Just to give an idea.

The event or process depicted may of course be compounded, for they will rarely stand alone anyway.

Returning again to the four poems I’ve been using as examples, ponder the third segment of each poem in relation to the event or process it depicts:

Poem Title
Segment Three Focus
hit and run & near death experience
an animistic experience on the Yukon river
a dream experience involving flight and metamorphosis
development of cognition through explorative play

Segment three includes references to the items depicted by segment one and segment two.

This is the same idea as that explained above under the fourth point. As I did there, I’ll indicate key phrases from the third segment of each example poem which reference back to the items depicted in the first and second segments of that poem.

References back to segment one’s item of focus:

Poem Title
Excerpt
Reference Type
“shelter shattered open like a nest”
usage and state
“… the floating soul …”
usage and relational metaphor
“… in the shade of gaze …”
action and behavior
“Individual colors snap …”
application and metaphor

References back to segment two’s item of focus:

Poem Title
Excerpt
Reference Type
“black lightning”
metaphor
“from out the wash … floating soul”
spatial and relational attributes
“… a figurine”
partial denotation
“impressionist expressions of the mind”
metaphor

This list is by no means complete. The third segment of some of these poems have multiple references to the items depicted by each of the previous segments. But this should give some idea.

Subtitles do not explicitly denote the focus of their segments.

The subtitle captures some attribute or aspect of a segment’s focus through metaphor or some other type of reference, but does not identify it directly by name or denotation.

The poem’s title must avoid giving away the overall focus of the poem or any of its segments.

Just as the subtitle should avoid giving away the focus of its segment, the title should avoid giving away the focus of the poem in a similar fashion. Rely on metaphor or some other associative type of reference when deciding a title.

The rules are actually easier to follow than they might seem. The challenge is in following them well, to good effect. This can only be discovered via trial and error, as I have been doing with the form until now.

Aural Borealis

This is my 14th trisect, by far the most challenging of them all for me. First the poem, then some thoughts.

Aural Borealis

Vibration

Her voice began in a furnace where blinding flashes of light
arced through scraps of metal until they swirled in a pool
of fiery molten fluid, drawn through a running cast
to red hot beams that slowly dimmed to a charcoal gray.

Her voice remained congealed within those cold gray billets
until at last they were moved once more into the fire,
reheated to a yellow that rivaled an alpine sunrise
then rolled into burning coils of thick unfinished wire.

Her voice emerged like a mist—heavy, cold and gray—
clanging anemic pangs with every shift and shock,
until it was drawn through the eyes of a series of shrinking dies
and thinned into tensile threads of spidery, silvery hue.

Her voice awakened at last, a vivid reverberation
borne aloft on the wind to dance over rolling hills,
chasséing amid the bunchgrass, jetéing through the sagebrush,
and pirouetting through the air with flying seeds.
 

Resonance

Her frame was born in the grip of weathered, ancestral hands,
leveled against the kill, for when the shaft was flown,
the hunter’s ears were piqued by a sound that yet remained,
inspiring him to hunt for a means to play the same.

Her frame took shape in the calloused hands of inspiration,
coaxed into living form from scraps of wood and skin
by ancient artisans who notched imagination
in ornamental bows that flew but melodies.

Her frame evolved in marble halls that harbored kings,
scales and chords expanding until resistance formed
a pillar to hold against the pull of hallowed strains
and serpentine harmonic curves to relieve the same.

Her frame outgrew the very hands that gave it being,
bursting forth a will that of its own accord
would volley out barrages of elegance and meaning
on airs reechoed over undulating lands.
 

Serenade

Her breath is a wind that brushes gently through the desert,
stirring the stained glass petals of Venus’ looking glass,
exciting wild bergamot atop green towers,
and swaying deep-throated harebells lightly on their stems.

Her hum is a feathery rain that tickles arid sands,
drifting down from downy skies until all ears
relax for a moment from the wary, watchful strain
that haunts and harries every living thing through life.

Her chant is the purl of a spring high up a narrow canyon,
wild mint and licorice gathered round the edge
of small, translucent pools wherein the heavens ripple
impressionist renditions of hawk and thunderhead.

Her call is a shower of light that streams over emptiness,
distant mountaintops and nearby shrubby hills
dissolved into a silhouette that circles round
beneath the shimmering flow of relativity.

The inspiration behind this piece is two wind harps, both conceptualized and created by New Mexico resident Bill Neely. Most people know the wind harp as a wide, narrow box with a few strings upon which one may close a window in order to force air past the strings. These two harps, however, are shaped like the concert harp and larger than life. The first, referred to by its sculptor simply as “the NFO windharp,” stands 20 feet tall and weighs 1600lbs. The second, called “Tempest Song,” was commissioned by the owners of the now defunct Traditions shopping center about smack in the middle of New Mexico and weighs in at 3000lbs at 24 feet in height.

“Tempest Song” was the first of the two wind harps I chanced to visit, in 2002, actually driving out to New Mexico to see and listen to this living, musical instrument after stumbling across some information about it online. The experience was somewhat ruined by noise from the close proximity of Interstate 25. Upon returning home, I sent its creator an email along with a copy of “Aeolian Strains,” a poem inspired by my visit, and I was invited to visit the first of the two wind harps on his private property the next time I made it out that way. I made it a point to take him up on this offer two years later, spending a night under the soundboard of this 20 foot harp—a wonderful and somehow enlightening experience. It has ever since been my intention to try to write a poem worthy of that first harp, remembering that night under the stars listening to her sing.

Alchemy

In this poem, my 13th trisect, segment one depicts steel. Segment two depicts the skyscraper, in which steel is the most essential component. And segment three depicts the effects of modern industry upon earth and humanity, which includes mining for and smelting steel and the development and movement of all those resources that lead to the creation and maintenance of the skyscraper.

Alchemy

Ore

Forged by myriad million years of light,
        cast against eternities of night,
elemental embers collect amid the void,
    pooled in glowing clouds of dust and rock.

Particles accrete through time and motion,
        condensed to monumental orbs of molten
crystal moods, amassing alloys mid the darkness,
    cooled to form a rind of raw potential.

Fertile soils rise from ancient stone,
        animating shapes of wood and bone.
Nimble hands evolve and grope the ground for clues,
    scratching for a means to reach the sky.

Fires smelt a future from deposits
        quarried from a realm of veins and pockets,
charged into converters from out the depths of reason,
    hatching alloys cast as new potential.
 

Corpse

They rise as if from out the earth, a maze
        of beams and columns stretched against the haze,
looming like the relic frames of ancient beasts,
    massive specters moaning on the wind.

Reflections slowly seal each giant carcass,
        body bags of alloys mined from darkness
closed around the ribs of tall decaying monsters,
    ghastly shadows cast across the landscape.

They cantilever labyrinths of gloom
        hard against an ever present brume,
where wander human wraiths yet bound to living breath,
    faces filled to silence with dismay.

Like mausoleums raised to mark the open
        graves where hopes lie wasting in corrosion,
great facades reflect with every sunset whisper
    traces of the hollowness within them.
 

Course

Canyons wrought from concrete steel and glass
        soar above an ever seething mass,
heads and fenders tossed within a frantic flood
    swelled from centuries of strong desire.

Arteries of lava, veins of phosphor
        circulate through fields of psychic squalor,
where great malignant tumors feed upon the current,
    welled from out the heart of mass confusion.

Discolored patches stretch and fade from view—
        membranes taking on a sickly hue—
an ever growing quilt expanding abstract themes
    flung beyond the grasp of human thought.

Filaments of culture weave a madness
        shimmered from the dark side of a canvas
suspended deep in silence against abysmal backdrops
    clung forever to the soul’s awareness.

The prosody is pretty complex. If you’re curious about it let me know and I’ll respond with an explanation.

kalpa

My 12th trisect. The content required a lot of meditation and reflection on the nature of being—and a few conversations with a well-whiskered monk over Scrabble. Segment one depicts the body, as in the corporeal form. Segment two depicts mind, which was really easy since everything is mind. Segment three depicts samsara, which is also pretty easy because everything is also rolled up in that process.

kalpa

This poem has been published in my book an inkling hope: select poems, available in Kindle and paperback formats. Out of consideration for those who have purchased a copy, I have removed it from this post and online viewing in general.

The subject matter explored here is of great personal interest. Probably since I was 5 or 6, I’ve been reflecting on the nature of being. It started with a budding fear of death. But as soon as I found myself struck by that fear, I also found myself asking, “Just what is it that dies?”

Everyone seems to have their own answer to this question. As for me, I have found a balance with it. I am content now to leave it unanswered. Unanswered, yes, but this does not mean unexplored. I don’t seek an “answer” at this point, because I’ve realized that there may not be one. But this shouldn’t stop me from seeking insight. Insights and answers are not the same. This poem has manifested from insights and makes no attempt to answer anything.

craft

My 11th trisect—And pure metaphor, apparently. Segment one depicts the word, or more specifically the morpheme. Segment two depicts the line, as in a line of poetry. And segment three depicts the process of writing poetry. Talk about abstract.

   craft

   rock

pressed in ancient beds of granite, slate and limestone,
         latent meaning morphs through dreamless sleep,
   eventually to break the rolling waves and rise
      from out the heavy hollows of the deep.

            eons steadily reveal
   frameworks laid beneath the ground,
         raw potentials long concealed.

rugged hands reflect on broken bits of earth,
         weathered through millenniums of doubt,
   and dimly sense potentials waiting undiscerned,
      conceptions to be learned and reasoned out.

            soon flames are tamed in hearthstone mounds,
   grains are pounded into meal,
         and slings are armed with small gray rounds.
 

   artifacts

barrows seal the homes where bones return to dust;
         dolmens house the disembodied dead—
   expressions raised to honor dear departed blood,
      conveyed throughout millenniums of dread.

            boundaries birth a web of walls,
   stretched throughout diverse terrain,
         enclosing keeps and township halls.

hallowed chambers echo whispers, murmured rites.
         columns vault gray shadows to a haze,
   and effigies defy the cruelties of time
      amid the slow decline of ancient ways.

            castles rise on golden plains
   and mountain palaces enthrall
         ridge tops in the sunset’s wane.
 

   trace

ages past are carved and mortared into place,
         stacked against the ravages of wear,
   impressions left to echo long forgotten days
      across the centuries of grueling care.

            quarries reach through hidden lodes
   for raw materials to build
         nascent hopes and strong abodes.

waters feed the ducts of resolute invention,
         wind buffets walls of praise and grave regret,
   towers guard their gates from sinister intention,
      bridges keystone over streams and vales. and yet

            each rigid monument of skill
   brick by stone in time erodes,
         erasing every act of will.

Lapse

My 10th trisect poem. The first segment depicts our sun, the second our galaxy, and the third the process (or principle rather) of acceleration.

There are some prosodic curiosities played with in this poem, like the juxtaposition of primary alliteration in the middle two lines of each quatrain. This proved to be more difficult than I expected, but also a good exercise I think.

Lapse

Entity

Clouds of gas and seas of dust
whirl in layers round a turbid well
which gathers density and force.

Concealed inside a cyclone spun through darkness,
hidden meaning flares flush against compression
and opens like an eye, wide with burning gaze,
its heavy lids thrown back against the void.

For aeons faint reflections cycle round
this fluid presence held haloed in the night,
concentrating dreams deep into the light,
into a stillness wrapped in fusion storms.

In time the fires dissipate
to vapors, glowing like a distant jewel,
which fades into the emptiness.
 

Colony

Vapors glow amid the gloom,
phantoms waiting to return to life
or fade forever from perception.

Splashed across an easel framed from absence,
a hidden brush portrays rays in random molds,
dispersed as tracts of foam frothed beneath the moon
to bulge about the heart of mystery.

Potential blooms like tufts of baby’s breath
with scattered silhouettes wound throughout the fields
where waves of motion spread spectrums far through time
to ripple in the skies of countless worlds.

A hundred billion modes of thought
glimmer like a liquid fused with light,
spiraled round a well of doubt.
 

Balance

Suspended like an ornament,
the master clock wheels slowly through the void,
seconds passed in fluid count.

Cogs and coils gyrate, stretch, and snap,
countless turning gears gripped by gravity,
which sends the broad machine churning through the dark,
momentum bound to arcs across the deep.

Throughout the ages systems come and go,
little flecks of light lit for stellar moments
like after-image flares fading from the mind,
half remembered from a distant past.

In time the random orbits dim
and yellow like a blurry cataract
across the burning eye of god.

Publication History:

Tales of the Talisman — Winter 2007

Exhale

This, my 9th trisect poem, is inspired by my experience of learning to play the bansuri flute. I have a long way to go still, but people no longer run for the hills when I play, which I hope means I’m getting better.

Segment one depicts the bansuri flute itself, by way of its origin and construction. Segment two depicts breath, without which the bansuri is just a piece of wood. Segment three depicts my process of learning to play.

      Exhale

            Reed

            Shoots reach forth and crack the earth
      with nodes that telescope into the air
until green blades dance out and sway against the sky

            A column falls before the saw
      drifting like a feather through its peers
    which lean and separate with rustle whisk and clack
until the parted clone lies cradled lightly in their midst

            Hollow sections lose their green
      hardened by the touch of open flame
until the thin walls cure to caramel colored hues

            Blemishes are smoothed away
      a plug is set with delicate precision
    bores probe and burn with care an empty space inside
until the slightest sigh sends echoes coursing through the wood
 

            Motion

            Ribs expand like gaping jaws
      and current rushes through a maze of tubes
to fuse with membranes hidden deep within the shell

            Rivers churn within their walls
      cycled through an all pervasive flow
    from channels of aeration through rapids fraught with force
to many-fingered deltas strewn across half-charted planes

            Bones contract a casual grip
      and moisture dissipates into the air
to mingle with a stream of circumscribing winds

            rained in far-flung alpine lakes
      absorbed by rolling seas of desert sand
    and perspired from the leaves of oaks and conifers
to drizzle dew on blades of grass half a world away
 

            Ambience

            Fingers dance on shades of brown
      as whispers vibrate down a narrow shaft
in waves that slowly learn their resonance and form

            Night after night uncertain sounds
      gather confidence beneath the moon
    phasing with the silhouettes of cherry trees
in movements half remembered from a long forgotten age

            Expression gradually finds its way
      to sagebrush valleys ponderosa peaks
in subtle overtones that grow in strength until

            timbres weave through redwood trees
      like whale song steeped in oceanic gloom
    resounding off sheer outcrops covered thick with moss
in undertones that settle like a mist among the ferns

Cathedral

There is a redwood State Reserve about 30 miles west of Ukiah called Montgomery Woods. The woods are a series of groves which have been purchased and set aside for preservation by various parties, most of which have been involved in the logging industry one way or another, oddly enough. A friend and I used to visit this park on a regular basis, and we came to think of it as being much like a cathedral. In fact, we referred to the entry into the first large grove as “The Cathedral”. Thus my 8th trisect poem.

Cathedral

This poem has been published in my book an inkling hope: select poems, available in Kindle and paperback formats. Out of consideration for those who have purchased a copy, I have removed it from this post and online viewing in general.

As I wrote this poem, I read up on the history and architecture of European Cathedrals, dating back to the Roman Empire, and looked for visual relationships between them and various points of interest within the Montgomery Woods. As I did so this poem began to take form with the first segment, “nave”, which is to say, the main hall of a cathedral. This segment focuses on the redwoods themselves.

Then I tried to think of a more complex object of focus for the second segment and thought of the Catholic Liturgies, so “vespers”. But as I finished “vespers” it dawned on me that this was describing a process more so than an object, and as I struggled to find a process to focus on for the third segment, I eventually decided to make “vespers”—the prayerful sounds of nature—that process.

I decided to focus on the “understory” of the woods for the second segment, which can describe anything found beneath the crown of the redwood forest. Slowly but surely, when I closed my eyes and visualized my walks through Montgomery Woods, I began to see relations between the understory and cathedral designs, and so segment two took form.

blindspot

My 7th trisect poem. Segment one is focused on the thunderhead, or supercell. This is the metaphor for the “thing” that has blinded all sense of foresight for me my entire teenage and adult life, at least since I was 13. I’ve always been amazed by how some people can see a desk job, and through it “see” a four bedroom house, a Benz, and a paid-off mortgage in 30 years, complete with wife, kids, a dog, and a picket fence. All I’ve ever seen is this thundering cyclone. Similarly I find it amazing how some people can look at a pile of wood and see a shed, a new business, or a planter garden, while all I tend to see is just a bunch of wood—and the thunderhead. So, this is segment one, “Erubus”, the realm of darkness and obscurity personified (not to be confused with night—that’s different).

Segment two focuses on the narrow road—in this case the road of life, specifically my life path, or “calling”, as it were, which I do my best to follow.

Segment three focuses on my interaction between this road and the ever-present thunderhead which looms on the horizon (and often much closer in the mind’s eye), sucking “the long horizon from the mind”. So the process depicted here is that of obscuration, brought on by a life of personal defeat and dehumanization.

blindspot

erebus

a million million shades of gray
swim between the land and sky
absorbing every detail into mist

many-jointed shoulders haunch
hulking up against the dome
to scatter shadows out across the earth

amorphous legs traverse the realm
labored with colossal strides
gaping forth an omnipresent maw

and in its belly rumbles deep
the acids of uncertainty
which churn the world into obscurity
 

calling

laid with crumbling asphalt rock or dirt
a rarely traveled path meanders far
across the scapes of possibility

beneath the canopies of ponderosa
along the stony course of waterways
amid the yawn of jagged desert peaks

the way of freedom weaves by dusks and dawns
a twisted uroboros colored earth
wrapped across the contours of existence

boiled in the depths of crawling storms
it rises writhing sharply into sight
a tired trail of chance and destiny
 

presage

colors fold into a distant haze
an open road to somewhere fades from view
lost in many-layered nimbus plumes

long cascading booms convey
a wall of nearing emptiness
which sucks the long horizon from the mind

this narrow road unfolds and turns
to meet the turbid banks of doubt
which cling to every curve along the way

weary legs and blistered feet
lurch and falter on the path
yet swing forever onward toward the void

Sakura

My 6th trisect poem. The first segment depicts the cherry blossom, by means of impressions. The second segment depicts the environments into which the cherry blossoms manifest and disperse. The third segment depicts the ephemerality of life.

In Japan the cherry blossom has long been associated with the ephemerality of youth and life, sometimes even painted alongside scenes of samurai harakiri and other scenes of mortal transition. In this poem I’ve attempted to depict these associations using mostly Western imagery. I’ve also tried to lace a sense of ephemerality throughout the entire poem.

Sakura

This poem has been published in my book an inkling hope: select poems, available in Kindle and paperback formats. Out of consideration for those who have purchased a copy, I have removed it from this post and online viewing in general. However, the above player can still be used to listen to it.

What’s interesting about the trisect is that I often come to see more in the poem when I read it than what was there when I wrote it. Already I can see associations and connections in this piece that I would have been sure were intentional if I hadn’t written it myself. I find myself wondering if this isn’t some kind of connection to the workings of the unconscious. Trisects are dreamlike in a lot of ways

Ark

This, my 5th trisect poem, is inspired by the moon of Europa. The one in orbit around Jupiter. Some believe there could be something neat happening beneath the rind of ice surrounding that unique sphere.

Segment one depicts that rind of ice. Segment two depicts the underlying potential. And segment three depicts the evolutionary process proposed to be a possibility.

Ark

This poem has been published in my book an inkling hope: select poems, available in Kindle and paperback formats. Out of consideration for those who have purchased a copy, I have removed it from this post and online viewing in general.

Publication History:

Art Arena (web-based) — March 2006