RE: RHYTHM

I know I have posted one Donaghy poem on here already, but I couldn't not put this up for the theme. Just look at the rhythm and metre that construct the poem's on-going image of 'machinery'.


Machines

Dearest, note how these two are alike:
This harpsichord pavane by Purcell
And the racer's twelve speed bike.

The machinery of grace is always so simple.
This chrome trapezoid, one wheel connected
To another of concentric gears,
Which Ptolemy dreamt of and Schwinn perfected,
Is gone. The cyclist, not the cycle steers.
And in playing, Purcell's chords are played away.

So this talk, or touch if I were there,
Should work its effortless gadgetry of love,
Like Dante's heaven, and melt into the air.

If it doesn't, of course, I've fallen. So much is chance,
so much agility, desire, and feverish care,
As bicyclists and harpsichordists prove

Who only by moving can balance,
Only by balancing move.

Michael Donaghy