Autopoiesis

Admit it. Wouldn’t you love it,
If any kind of poetry,
In any learnable language,
Had literal magic in its
Incantatory elements—
Not just music, feeling, meaning,
Solemn witness, storytelling—
But actual magic in it?

What would a poet do with that,
Beyond expression, beyond praise,
Beyond wrath, love, consolation,
Straight through the heart of the changes,
Prophecies, and divinations,
To the far side of the forest
Where the green world falls like a shawl
And life releases life’s children?

If there is a language for that,
For spells that truly transform things,
That transcend mere invocation
Of supernatural beings,
Mere naming and renaming them,
Language that warps physic’s patterns,
It won’t be language poets make.
It will be language language makes.