Pome in B minor

I’ve been looking for a pome for you
but I can’t find the right one
I think to myself of
‘Faces Seen Once…’
to recall all those at epochs gone

this morning it was raining
and I thought how much
I used to love to smoke a cigarette
on those in-between rainy days
bereft of expectations
contrite as Camus’ processes
or as the-younger; take the afternoon off
and seep into a book of philosophy
in dingy barroom; or solitude walks
in DC wandering or Princeton art exhibits;
the beaches Atlantic or Gulf all
‘Lines Written In Dejection’

soft in refrain from the mosaic of the trapeze
and just the wording reminds me of a night
I was in a carnival tent; with the wire and the net
It was me and a stranger that I had just met
and we dared each other to take some steps for the wire
I made three steps then fell the ten or fifteen feet
and we laughed: This daring I could take

but youth kept me free from love
and in a coldness that was possessed
in enchantments: foggy mornings in cemeteries
and all night coffee jam sessions or on the bayou where
Greek youth celebrates the Epiphany
and also listening this morning to a piano player talk
about Schumann’s ‘Carnaval’ how it spoke
from with-in her heart or Byron’s hack of Pope in ‘Sonnet on Chillon’
to what ends do we dare ourselves to flail in our failures
what is success without its father experience?
and yet ~ what of the wines of the monks of Chillon
O ~ of what use is it to outlive all of them if we cannot
find the suitable goal of understanding; the purpose
of a life worth living or the sublet of circumstantial choices

in ten years will it be a burnt candle sitting on a bookshelf
and the truth; will it be a demarcation? Tales of perspective-
it is an exempt stage onto the players; a angle
of repose where the lofty make there toasts and speak
to the valor of living inside-out of fears then ~
one day to be standing in Normal Mailer’s living room
or decades earlier listening to poetry
sitting next to Allen Ginsberg
what is sadness but the heart of dreaming?

life is divorce and dead friends; regrets
and sublime victories; cold solitude mornings
or Easter’s buried in sweat on the brink of sanity
or Halloween in Ensenada drinking margaritas
these manifests are a boatswain’s keep
everyday has its chance to be 'Suddenly Last Summer’

and yet, miracles persist
by our unintended consequences of a chance night
visiting a friend who won’t let you stay home
and instead of outside the maddening crowd
one of those truths relit; a prayer,
snow covered daffodils in April
or ‘Hours of Idleness’
for the sake of distractions-I-not-why;

but this is what I wanted to say to you
meaning unexamined, version unedited
life breaking forceful under the tides
new moon Ash Wednesday’s all across America
God resting comfortable in soft morning, joke-book
sitting on his belly…the world asleep at its feet.



Feb2009
© 2009 woundedlordliterature
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