Thursday, 21 November 2013

The Machine by B. C. Leale


The room exists for the machine
The machine is wheeled into the room
The machine contains the poem
The machine exists for the poem
         which is plugged into light
The rays of light converge on a blank
         freighted with language
There are dense textures and tones
There are weightless phrases
There are solids floating on colours
         as if rocks were the echoes of
         their fires and their seas.

The machine exists for the room
         it gives it meaning
When light wheels out of the machine
         it suddenly breaks.

B. C. Leale, Leviathan and other poems (London, New York: Allison & Busby, 1984), 66.

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