Beneath the Needle Spire

This poem has been said to be too cryptic, so I'll save you the trouble and tell you that it's about going to the Melbourne Arts Centre and seeing a play.

I go to witness once again

 The fools I most admire:

Those player fools whose talent fuels

 My muse’s inner fire,

Within a velvet, gilded hall

 Beneath the needle spire.

 

Its outline rises like a lance

 Up to the tip of night,

And all below are lamps aglow

 With multi-coloured light;

A holy temple of The Arts

 To bear this theatre rite.

 

And like disciples do we pass

 Into the hall of gold: 

The student green, the artist lean,

 The plutocrats of old;

All overcome with ardour

 At the wonders to behold.

 

Such finery is rarely wrought

 As that which greets me here,

The splendid swath of well-cut cloth

 And fashion to revere;

No ill-dressed knave to notice

 On the night of this premiere.

 

The chiming bell is sounded now,

 I hear the hush descend,

We all prepare to spirits share

 And disbelief suspend,

For magic may yet happen

 If you willing faith extend.

 

They come with thunder at their heels,

 A Tempest wind is blown,

In every line a truth divine:

 An insight to intone;

Their Playhouse is a picture box

 On which our dreams are shown.

 

This merry lot upon the stage

 Are clowns as they are wise,

With reckless strive they do connive

 Through honesty and lies,

And all in all, their story

 Does humanity surmise

 

The players exit with a bow

 Into the night’s reprieve;

Despite release, we cannot cease

 To daydream and believe;

Though we had entered singular

 An audience takes leave. 

 

Outside, the city bustles on,

 To home do I retire,

But I shall yearn to soon return

 And sate my sole desire,

Within that velvet, gilded hall

 Beneath the needle spire.