A Tired Poet (in
Poetic Prose)
I tolerate thee,
and witness: I serve with all my thoughts.
If I provoke, I t wasn’t careless— D.L. Siluk
I
am a tired poet.
A
man of music and soul, and much more; for the whole of the world I
could love and leave, and all the lovely
little women, leave them in the
cool shadow of the bush, and let them
grieve.
That
was when I was a gusty man, and not quite near a telltale poet!
When
I was a man, you would not call a man, not tired, and belonged to no
holy house—
Perhaps
with every simmering moment more mouse than man; more bull
and only wanting good times!
But
now my blood creeps old, and slow, and God has washed my black
soul; and I am a ramrod of a poet;
perhaps too harsh a poet, too
demanding an overseer, disciplinarian.
I was
once like a child in a nightmare who hears a monster in the back of
him, and cannot speak!
Oh,
time enough has changed me, wrinkled my horns, filled up the mouse
hole, for I gave my soul blindly to God
with a slashed eye, and he
asked, “What is it you want?”
Innocence
and truth, blessed my last black breath, “A Poet” I said.
And
he lifted and planted into my head, all the deadly virtues that plagued
earth, and its death! Things a poet must
know.
Thus
as you see, I have little modesty.
Am
I at such an hour of need, no longer demon-ridden, just tired, in need of
something… but what?
Perchance
a gusty wind.
I
dabble in forgotten thoughts, I am like the ancient poet who dwells in
gothic towers to avoid a hair of a sin,
and still I find I am not so unlike my
colleagues an amateur evil—but nonetheless evil, a bad paradigm: a
philology of Babel, for I have a love of
learning from man, if only they
could
deliver eternal wisdom! But so few have (Ratzinger, being one who
has).
I
am a hieratic, sacerdotal in mind and soul for both sacred and secular
writings; I try to push darkness over
the edge of the world, and I break the law when it is obviously absurd,
nonsense: for it serves neither God
nor man; but that’s who I am: a man of
paradox, as if coiled in the
vulture boiling sun.
Yet
I try to be an honorable poet even for the old rubbish and polluted
world, a world draped white, and once
under its canopy, tossed with hail stones, —
Yes,
I had my stirring days, my youth!
And
I wrote like other poets of innumerable images, with enchantment,
confidence, like a bricklayer not
forgetting where to put his mortar!
Seeking
what my age demanded, but giving what I felt the age deserved!
I
suppose this is what made me so tired, not broken, just tired!
Sitting
back now in my plain chair, back slumped, slightly lowered eyes on
my notebook paper, breathing slowly to write
this prose poem out, that gravitas to my tiredness: I am sandwiched between
space and time, I am
matter with substance, thus, every word
like an old man’s thick blood, forever to circle this body, causing me to move
in slow motion, no, it is not
death yet, only exhaustion: I have
hidden energy, even in my REM
sleep!
My
tiredness is like old dust on kettles and clocks, and my old my piano, it
shifts through the house to and fro, rides
like rust on my flesh, and the hedges on my arms and legs crack, holds me down
some, and time has
squeezed out of my tongue all its substance; but God has
taught me to love man, and animals and plants before this, the full gamut of
life, grave
and beloved to even the grass, and even the daughters of
darkness.
My
wife says in my dreams, or perhaps nightmares, there are jagged
fragments of my youth coming out in the
middle of the night, this
keeps my eyelids shut, a weight of a
tired crumpled poet.
But
I have found dignity, and with such, comes tragedy, I think:
nevertheless, I am not empty.
And
I will write on, I have more thoughts, although my head, my brain is
like bad flooring, thus, down there in
the dark I become unable to think,
move… at times!
Yes
I have come out of the lair of unfrocked youth, now dew dipped in
layers of years, to old age, where sleep
and good, and forever-ness, and slowness and deep thinking, and at a few
corners perhaps rare
wisdom surfaces, and now with hobnailed
tales!
And
with all this I find an imbalance coming into my left eye, in my ankles
and knees, the balls of my feet, my
temper at times can penetrate the walls.
There
is no except from this tiredness, the atypical poet; what is the crime
here he sees?
Out
of a saint’s cell he has found it.
Hence,
now the poet has become the owl, the fox; the latch of the cell has
been lifted, and out of the webbed dark,
the hearthstone tales of the world has been put into the heart of this tired
poet, and like the dew that
falls on the wind, so does the task of
those tales fall on the heart and soul of the poet, as the world falls silent
as having been pushed into a
cyclone of fear, he must express, tired
or not, tell the gospel, as the
devil comes sly as a fox on his heels.
What
is he going to tell? Tell that the saint in the cell committed him too
tell?
He
has asked his Angelic Power, for this kind of strength.
“The world has committed treason of a
sad sort—; the world has come to being a snake eating his own tail; it has
wounded its own head, with
blasphemies to God, this is treason, and
the world appears to be ignorant of it, or just indifferent to it, or
pretending it isn’t!”
And
yes, the tired, this tired poet knows it to be so true!
And
he knows the judge who sits on the highest cloud with the politeness
of a nobleman, is observing!
On
earth they call him ‘The hangman’ because hatful hearts, abhor having
discipline, order, rules; because they
want to subvert the canons of God, without God’s permission, and cannot see that
God has placed those
cannons in place for man’s sacred
safety.
And
the poet says to the man high up on the cloud:
“You’re wasting your time, man has
again fallen into the sea of sin!”
Accordingly,
the poet broods, this tired poet broods in ill-health at times,
his heart darkens, at man’s stage of
justice.
God
knows the poet because of the lack of his hesitancy to reason, and his
generalizations, he would be to man’s
disadvantage, should he make him a judge over man, so he will not allow the
poet to step into such an
office, even though he knows man has
been reduced to a technical
imbecile—
And
God reminds the poet, as tired as he may be: “Yes, their treason has
tired you down and it has to some
degree, annoyed me, but you were once like the various men you have witnessed,
and now little in common
with them but your poems—, but you do understand
as a poet with a soul so baffled over the minds of the world, would only—if I
allowed you to
judge them—defeat my purpose, the very
reason I went to the cross!”
“Yes,”
the poet says, realizing between enmities and acting as God would
Wish him to act; he’d lose the goat and
the rope:
Why,
because of his sentimentality, would have vanished, and he would
have been the monster behind the backs of the whole world.
The
poet is thinking now, me! Is this tiredness, turning into madness!
Now
at the end of days, is the old demon-ridden me, coming back?
He
has pseudo-prophetic visions for the world.
Or
what is it he has, is it just a broken egg? He’s thinking hard on this!
Should
he be clapped in irons and sent to the nuthouse, like Pound was?
Yet,
we pay him for the darkness, for the acumen he shed.
He
did not discover that the world was wrong, or that it was committing
treason, he simply pointed it out;
He
knows it’s a crime against God, and he knows all life has gotten him
tired, and at God’s calling he may be
resistant or overwhelmed to go
home, who’s to say until that very
moment arrives—
But
if he stops to think, perhaps he is looking for the impossible before
that happens, and that would be, a
bridge for man, and this in itself has
already been done, and Satan has consummated this a crime to
cross.
But
he wants to do more, and God knows this: his faithful cry, is the outcry
of a ceaseless, yet tired poet, against
the ruled solar system.
Naked
and unforsaken, he grieves for an abrupt change, but this will not
happen: why? Because the lawless sun,
and its solar system, is like man on earth, it comes designed with its own
will.
No: 4527 (8-20-2014)
