prolegomenon
dreams come to settle and I regret that
after the seasons of the span, a cradle sits
slowly down
having no anthem, nor pride to recollect
it's funny that sorrow even peeks its head
into my thoughts
and yet I can still understand
how one song can influence another
slight hinges of conscience takes a flight
not burdened by its past
the way that I yet, still seem to be
ghosts may be simmering in my sight
a spell may be trying to take hold
I have no fear of the dead, most of everyone
I have loved is there
at the precipice; Beatrice may be waiting for me
with her saber and her scorn
I am skating Peter's Brook, in my winter boots,
teaching myself how to go backwards, as she
glances I am ankle deep in the icy water,
can you laugh about me now Beatrice, now
that summer is here and you have left the pear
trees and the weary stream for me to allow myself
hollow gratification of sisterly smile
when you explain to me love from shoulders
length
it was not that you did not love me, it was simply
that you would not,
telling me to continue upstream to rest
near the deeper waters
one day; that beatific vision would include
even the dull blade that I kept under my pillow
genii moves to trade this dance for the
soft promenade; to lean against the glass
to reach into my side unbreaking the sky
I have drank away my will
colored the suite to find my octave
baleful allegories rest silently sleeping the night
it is no longer a matter of fact or opinion that
muse has retreated, no longer to meet me
with tear stained fingers pressed upon my window
our childish scorn has no manifest for truce
I rest easy yet serenity stands with arms akimbo,
ardent surmise; for this understanding failure
my wounded lord; you were to save with
me, fight with me, against the divisions,
allow me my difference, deference although
as I do not stand defeated; has this cursory
blemish sprouted someone less vain,
more corrupt and picked precisely poison
empty on my palate? I should be absolute
in my condemnations alas a pilgrimage
against my spirit to be siege! Behold;
this only weapon against the open scorn
less the tyrants of naiveté less the warmth
of the broken light. Stand against me, bear
my tolerance show me that once and for all
there is no meaning in this pursuit, that I
am genuine fool, that I am a blind Percival
cracked under the lunar light, then mercifully
scorn me to that decadent solitude pitted
and possessed of vanity; tortured terror sans
the gravel roads, the burnt out furnaces,
the collapsed mines and the fell bridges
leave me in the most human of moments
without the hope of salvation; starvation,
cold… solitude… force upon my spirit that
which I can not stand to bear…or find it to
stand with me undaunted Gran Paradiso,
or Nearer My God to Thee; magnanimous,
paltry, as the day is long…savage and raw!
yet mine is a fare thee well; as Jacob climbs
the gate; hooded and strange, colossal and tame
whisperingly kind, forgiving sermons of
better days gone by, Paris in June and September
in Venice each arc of sympathy a scroll
of Solomon and hint of abstention
I have no never mind in the benediction
that we remain to seek out in each synchronistic
oath that we pick our destiny from the ashes
of that victor voice; this involuntary memory
trades spaces with the guide momentarily
a genuflect, a tight roped table and chair
suspended right before our beating hearts
as simple as the phrase that sticks white knuckled
to vanity’s stroke of genius; its not meant to
be painful my child, it is meant to illuminate
the difference of reckoning; what we leave
behind is only a reference to the depth of
the feelings that remain, the scolding joy
or the terrific trance, we stand together
outside of this gate, a membrane, a symphony
for deed; the voice says I had not left you
while you have slept on the stone and I have
filled your dreams with a gift to return to
man, heal thy heart, hold thy reach against
the gravity, move it to the hesitations coy
tremble… trust… yourself… trust your
desire to become a child again
a justice, blind and forthcoming; something
just beneath the surface
its funny that when one seeks proof, one verily finds it
we seek that which we cannot put our finger on,
it turns out to be all that we feared was worst,
driven to an end by suspicion’s crooked fingers,
dialing a deviant diatribe baseless in its desire for
annihilation, where even the peaceful do not walk
for the dead, nor do they longer await,
sudden, symptomatic and summery, a dissection
of pride and animosity; we do not live for inspiration
not the way God does, nor do we anticipate the fates
the way the Devil does; we, we are the relative calm
finding a way to turn the cure into a revival,
to step into Eden’s forfeited grave, some duty of
long forgotten paradises, only there do we promise
to take our rest, as if we, have been taken upon,
as if we, had been typified in jest, if we had turned
our backs and not the other way around
that sorrow, that bitter sorrow like spoilt milk
baked by the heat, scorn that swallows the sand,
chokes on the last bit of bread, manna, oh manna,
I am nourished not in the bosom, but under the spell,
my awaited destiny is crippled not by the angels envy,
nor the hypocrisy of the institutions, nor of the faltered
ideals of generations history, the millennium criss-crosses
what the saints have denied and where they have failed,
not I, something is driving the spike through my heart,
tonight as I appeal now, as I cry in respite, as I relax
the tempered steel that is my casing, I long to tear
down that wall, to reach into a place I have only seen
in visions, plagued by my youth and my hesitation,
be with me oh Lord, protect me from all of my punishments,
for I have been a sullied man, weak by flesh, ignorant
by birth, soulless by misfortune, stubborn as the day
is long. is there enough love for me to overcome all
that is detestable to sublime, an intrinsic grafting of a
life less dignified than most, I do not know if I am honorable
enough for my task, I do not know if I am courageous
enough to muscle the last credo for an everlasting essence
I simply know that I may not have control over it,
that with or without my will, something is happening
around me that I can not have understanding of,
that my lessons are turning a wheel against a hard river,
and I am only helping to carry from one shore to the next,
the foreboding glances to the journey, and it is difficult if not
impossible to see the other side, too much fog, too much wind,
too much rain, too much darkness.
we will mark this day, to suit as an anniversary to the embellishment
of Constantinople, the trademark of orthodoxy, the gift of
anticipation; schisms tunicate and baselines, this morning
that the muse deigned and danced with a pearl in her belly,
taunting the graceless with a beguile, lavender and licorice,
clarinets and bass drums, a parade of charm and inclinations,
later, when the sun arises and the new moon raises, we will
have exhausted the timid in our memory, and our tempest in
our teapot, will the light hurt my eyes or will my soul be lifted
in flight under the gray sky, damp with spring…
© 2007 woundedlordliterature
ШАМРО
