Song

07/29/2009 § Leave a comment

 

The moon feigning a slow, baleful death.
Young restless souls enthralled by the performance.

Artists littering the streets with failed aspirations.
Money and hunger burning like effigies in back alleys.

People crying for truth, people crying for justice, people crying for etc. …
A prophet instructing them to sing instead:

“The salted earth, the ruins of Carthage,
A queen burnt to a redolent smoke
Over the Punic sands—

O what distinction, Elissa,
To have dared love’s conflagration
With mortal flesh!

I do not believe for one moment
That we are just meat, ordained for whiteness of bones
After brief years of pains and desires.

So be unafraid, ye cut and broken people:
The Fates themselves are humbled
When we sing of one voice, our lives.”

A bell tolling the idle hour in a Mediterranean town.
Old men complaining about sons over olives.

A fisherman staring into the pall before daybreak.
A kettle on the stove, hissing at his silence.

Somewhere, Truth and Beauty are copulating
as two disparate stars in a constellation.

(Of Hermaphroditus, perhaps.)

Advertisements

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s

What’s this?

You are currently reading Song at Poetry and Other Things.

meta

%d bloggers like this: