Hi Margaret,
A couple of touches of confidence in here (well, there's far more than a 
couple! - but two I notice and really admire...).
The way it starts with "he" and then, ever so slightly, a name appears...
And the use of the adjective "unpersuaded" which not only captures the 
tension, the stillness and silence, but really manages to hint at the 
changes the whole poem is (almost) describing as well.

One thing to think over - something I'm not over sure about - is the fact 
that he "whispers" - it hints (to me) more of melodrama and how actors can 
ham things up... I sort of half expect a chuckle turning into a loud head 
raised laugh to follow the line! I wonder if there's another way of saying 
he speaks quietly - or do we need to highlight how he says this? Does the 
reader not discover the tone anyway?

Bob


>From: grasshopper <[log in to unmask]>
>Reply-To: The Pennine Poetry Works <[log in to unmask]>
>To: [log in to unmask]
>Subject: New sub: The Alchemist's Omelette
>Date: Sat, 6 May 2006 01:27:45 +0100
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>The Alchemist's
>Omelette
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>If he traces
>three more arcs, he will make a cat--
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>not a common striped creature like Arnolfini's
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>ginger tom--but an incandescent beast
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>with onyx eyes.
>Nim pauses, his horn-nib suspended
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>over the page, then inscribes two arcs
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>at the proper declension.The third curve tries
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>to draw itself.
>He hears the thin hiss as it sucks
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>at the Chinese ink, and then it crouches,
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>frustrated and invisible, a long quiver
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>in the air
>waiting for a weight of colour.
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>Around Nim, flickers prowl and growl
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>in unfinished flourishes, designs and devices
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>all requiring
>just one more touch suddenly
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>to be, to leap from some tangled dimension
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>into the simple now. If he closes his eyes
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>he can see
>scattered points of light.
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>They burrow beneath his lids and prickle
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>against the skin of his sight. He knows
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>eyes peel like
>onions, burst like ripe grapes.
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>Space, busy with nearly-but-not-quite,
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>presses around him with an undercurrent
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>of insect
>vibration. The sound grows louder,
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>breaks, concentrates into a small beat, tac
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>tac, the eggtooth of an unhatched chick
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>trying to crack
>its shell. The egg, that symbol
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>of perfection, which hangs above Piero's Madonna.
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>He curls his fingers around the smooth, cool concept
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>and smells
>incense. Once you are, he whispers,
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>you will die. Time has stronger magic than mine.
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>Without the last stroke, you have Forever.
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>The unpersuaded
>air tensions between chair and chair,
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>chair and table, like cittern strings. His mouth becomes
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>the hole in a sound-box, rounded by surprise
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>as four claws
>rip through incompletion like knives
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>through a curtain. A woman, with long chestnut hair
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>and skin as blue as gentian bells, is the first.
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>She leads a great lynx on a golden cord.
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>     M.A,Griffiths
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