limed with the corpses of dead poets,
but the trains run on time. There are trees laden with fruit
and horses prancing in a fancy parade,
while a president is perpetually shaking hands.
But in all those green pastures, the republic of poetry lies fallow,
because in reality, no one ever adopts the poets.
The unaknowledged legistators of the world have fled
to safer climes as they are often first on the hitlist
with a one-way ticket to that undiscovered country.
This is an elegy for the dead poets of Chile, Nicaragua, Iraq.
Now, Ukraine. The idea of a republic is an old notion
bandied about until it slithers back into the black hole
of despotic dictatorship. Again. You’d think
we would’ve learned history’s harsh lesson by now.
From the toga republic of ancient Rome
to the fascista black shirt of Il Duce,
to the jumpsuited Orange One, the fight continues.
I think of Ukraine holding fast to its identity
as the new & improved USSR
tries to swallow it like a despotic python.
Mother Russia was always insatiable,
unable to assuage her Stalinesque bloodlust,
absorbing and stripping cultures
at the speed of invading tanks, and missiles,
or cossacks rumbling across the tundra.
How can I write about what was lost?
And to think of our own republic of senators,
in clandestine backroom deals, war profiteers
selling out to the highest bidder. There goes democracy.
We, the people, are the ones that suffer, and so it goes.
I admit I only watched the first day of the Jan 6 hearings.
I can’t bear to witness any more, opting for synopsis,
if only for a momentary peace of mind.
Does that make me any less unpatriotic?
I know this isn’t a poem, it will never be a poem.
Yet I write because there is no hope of resurrection,
nor will those plump images come to my bidding.
It is nothing but imitation, after all.
The labyrinth of music holding onto the past,
is choosing you, whether or not you are ready for it.
And hidden in the folds of the lair of dreams,
are things left undone that cannot be fixed,
nightmares that resurrect at life’s end.
In the trap of memory, what is in force,
is not what I imagined, yet here we are.
In the republic of the artists, the keepers of truth,
we wouldn’t censor ourselves in order to beg for money,
or tighten our proverbial belts, thus girding our loins,
and not go down for the count.
The realm of the heart is a labyrinth,
with a policeman on patrol, searching for truants.
And hope is a name looking for its heartsong,
to escape on the wings of a bird.
This is the first dead bird among many,
feathered fragments of silence
resurrected in the bookstore of dreams.
That candle guttering in the library
is a dangerous weapon of mass distraction.
6/15 Write On! Susie Terence workshop
No comments:
Post a Comment