Monday, October 12, 2009
The poet. He neither lives awake on the page
Nor on the edge of an eyelid fuming with colors
And passionate birds of memory and the present
Beautiful lake in front of which he eats rice cake.
That, sure, but in singing of the art, conscious
Of his own fart and part in the din of the streets
And screechy malls, his donations to the buzz of
Electrons in the daily grind of man’s wirings,
Communicativeness, he nests among cucumbers
Pickled with vinegar and admires the inevitability
Of soured destructions. The beauty of form, godly
Dedication to norms and all divergences result
In a diary-like journalism involving minutes,
Minutiae and minuscule eruditions of corruption,
Consequent calamities and lost funds. Last to know
He promises not to be, to the least knowledgeable
He swears to deliver both music and company,
Singing of rhythms, prancing among rhymes, yea
But surely too information, declarations of disgust,
Social dysfunctions, sleaze, his pen scratching,
Even as he retracts to the mining of blue lights
Upon lyrical objects of delight—the fights among
Pastoral ants, flights of fancy, flimsy odes, syllabic
Metrics—a perennial measure sailing, and failing.
For battles begin. Pleasure versus the leisure
Of looting and abuse of power, assassination of
Dissenters, movement against political art, decors
On the chests of collaborators, the meat of art,
Without which there is nothing but music inside
The head sans the materiality of violins, sad guitars,
Simply notations of whole notes and not, like whole
Milk from absent cows, dreams of the snorers and
Those who refuse to believe that poetry is not
At all the art of the pedantic master of syllables
And creator of stanzaic worrisomely pedantic tics,
It is painting—and the lines deny and cry truths.
In the flood, he thought of saving all his manuscripts.
In his blood, and eyes, poetry awoke, floating to survive.