Devon Pan
A boy with goats,
flute pressed to his lips,
breath spilling into wood—
a ribbon of sound
trembling like reeds in a river.
The goats shuffle,
a comic chorus,
yet their eyes, like his,
turn toward the woman on wheels,
her hair a banner in the salt wind.
Not Syrinx fleeing Arcadia,
but a Devon cyclist—
swift, untouchable—
her passage stirring
the same old hunger.
Pan once chased,
and Syrinx became music.
Here, the chase is only eyes:
a turning of heads,
a melody half‑formed
in the boy’s chest.
Wordsworth might have called him
“a simple child of nature,”
innocence grazing in the fields—
yet already the heart quickens,
already the world
is more than pasture.
Keats would have lingered
on the “unheard melodies” of the flute,
the sweetness of desire
that never quite arrives,
while Shelley might have named
the wind itself a piper,
scattering notes
across the restless sea.
And so the scene holds:
a boy, a flute,
goats nodding in rhythm,
a woman vanishing down the trail—
all of it ordinary,
all of it myth.
For in every gaze
that follows beauty,
in every breath
that makes music,
the old story repeats:
Pan reaching,
Syrinx escaping,
life itself singing
in the space between.
.
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Author:
crypticbard (Pseudonym) (
Offline) - Published: October 23rd, 2025 05:14
- Category: Unclassified
- Views: 12
- Users favorite of this poem: Friendship, Tristan Robert Lange, Kevin Hulme
Offline)
Comments5
Is it not all a metaphor for man always chasing beauty never to quite grasp it and should he then what was beauty in the eye of desire becomes the ordinary, expected, now discarded. A lovely write my friend.
Thank you dear Soren🙏🏻🕊️
You are most welcome it is a pleasure
The poem explores themes of beauty, longing, and the cyclical nature of desire through the lens of myth and nature. It reflects on how the pursuit of beauty can evoke deep emotional responses, linking modern life to ancient myths.
Thanks Friendship🙏🏻🕊️
Good write A, though I suppose I'm lost in the crypticness of it. 'Nothing new there then' relating to me, as the saying goes! lol.
Thank you muchly dear Orchi 🙏🏻🕊️
This is poetry’s own origin story...Pan’s breath reborn in modern lungs, the Devon wind carrying Keats, Shelley, and Wordsworth in its undertones. You’ve written the eternal pursuit of art itself: beauty fleeing, music following. 🌹🖤🙏🕯️🐦⬛ Very well done and a fave.
And now it’s our turn! 🙏🏻🕊️
Can't tell you how much I Loved this . A fave.
That you told me has sufficed, Kevin! Thank you. It has piqued my interest though. But I shall content myself for now. Rik.🕊️🙏
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