Monday, October 12, 2009

Perennial Failure

1.

The poet. He not only 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.

Those, sure, but in singing in his art, conscious
Of his own fart and part in the din of the streets
And screechy malls, his donation to the buzz of
Electrons in the daily grind of man’s wirings,

Communicativeness, he nests among cucumbers
Pickled with vinegar, then admires the inevitability
Of sour 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,
Chanting rhythms, prancing among rhymes, yea
His way to your information, disgust declarations,
Social dysfunctions, sleaze, his pen scratching,

All this while retracting to the mine of blue lights
Upon lyrical objects of delight—the fights among
Pastoral ants, flights of fancy, flimsy odes, syllabic
Consonants—a perennial measure sailing, failing.

The constant battle. Pleasure versus the leisure
Of looting and abuse of power, assassination of
Dissenters, movement against political art, decors
On the chest of collaborators, the “meat” of art,

Without which latter nothing but a music inside
The head, sans the politics of violins, sad guitars,
Notates the poem’s whole notes and not, like whole
Milk from absent cows. Dreams of snorers and

Those who refuse to believe that poetry is not
At all the art of the pedantic master of syllables
Or creator of stanzaic, worrisomely eccentric tics.
It is painting—with lines denying, crying verities.

2.

In the flood, he thought of saving all his manuscripts.
In his blood, and eyes, poetry awoke and floated to survive.

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