Glen Phillips

White Pennons at the Campus Gates 


Glen Phillips


Two dismembered figures these twin flags

that writhe their triangles in the wind,

furl and unfurl round their whipping posts.

I watch through the tall classroom windows

avenues stretching away to distant gates

where white pennons try to untie themselves:

free spectres of some ultimate release.


I walk the aisles of prisoner examinees

where assemblages of pens scurry across

white paper pages of examination books

like the rush of wind across unquiet seas.

Their agonies of revelation are pennons

of their souls bared now to be buffeted

by this intellectual pinning to the mast.


I turn back to that prospect from the window,

the carefully raked gravel of the avenue,

the perfectly spaced ornamental shrubs

but still am drawn to admire the frenzy

of those spectral pennons to be free.



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