ECLIPSERA

In the immemorial temple of examination, where silence makes music and shadows are vocalists, Poetry alone is mistress - a high priestess of the paradoxical and a seer in the land of not-to-beuttered. verba volant, scripta manent - words fly, but the written word remains. The body of poetry crumbles not to dust covering human whispers with echoes unheard that. Poetry, fiery flower of fine feeling which the universe wrung from its own heart in fever till it filled inkpots with words as deep as blood and set the sand of sea-shores jumping all aglow with its soul's scattering: being not mere meter (argued so) nor sound for music measured - mana it rather is, a mind-mirror it minded for man's mighty mantra. If it doesn't have the chronological esteem of age, nor fit into categories, so much the better: for ars est celare artem - art is to conceal its own art; and if anything is approved when enacted, then that would be a dance on purpose out of disorder; an exquisite harmony veiled in disarray. Bred of breath and boundlessness, poetry bursts through the banal and clears a way for the deep. It converts trivialities time to timelessness. to truth, tears to testimony, and time into timelessness. As with the Roman proverb, fiat lux - let there be light - so too does every poem shine a light upon a cosmos from chaos, creating form out of formlessness and meaning out of confusion. Let us examine the natures, the characteristics, the attributes, and the abilities, all spun with the golden threads of Latin knowledge and the thunder of alliteration.