With William Butler Yeats I see a striking parallel:
of politics and prosody, a marriage made in hell;
each new idea casting an elusive, mastering spell
with only moments in between for time and space to gel
and being armed with will alone, in one’s own Book of Kells
to find only the missing pieces, husks and empty shells.
The tragedy of Poetry, perhaps, or an Irish Curse:
to reclaim places as your own that did not claim you first,
and seek beyond the shapes of things, to slake an inner thirst
that wrecks the lives of those you know, and your loved ones, the worst.
To know that which you think you know is only myth and verse
Composed by some like-minded fool lost in the universe.
In contradictions to define an image of a sage
who mirthless, hoards some trust of great lore, page by page
devouring through the night as restless demons, in their rage
rattle the bars that you now see, in corners of your cage.
Yet hoping, until that last breath
that as with living, so with death
a chain of endless counted days
extended, infinite, both ways.
With that vision in mind, there is no defeat.
There are countless stories to discover, tell and retell;
and somewhere on that line, that existential parallel
you actually find William Butler Yeats.
06 MAY 2004
What I see is there for every eye;
it does not hide that well, it seems to me –
for although present in a clouded sky,
it is shielded quite ineffectively.
Beyond the veiled illusions it exists
and waits, expectant, ’til we catch a glimpse;
it is both light that hides, and hiding mist,
both door and hinge, both shadow and footprint.
I write about it, yet my mere words fail,
as well you know who see it clear as I;
my loose description does but mark the trail –
a fleeting flash of color passing by.
Sometimes, when we both look, our eyes may meet
and in that instant, the world is complete.
21 JUN 2003
a song that
flicker of time.
Like the side
of a candle
at the edge
of your vision,
the sound of
my voice, its
seems to draw
as it waxes
16 MAY 2003
Far below the surface of the waking
world, there lies a still and sleeping giant,
a slow unconscious vision of making
that exists beyond the mad defiant
whirlwind of apparent thought and vision;
before the dawn it stands, self-reliant
and free from the bonds of indecision,
watching each small step we dare to venture
with a compassionate derision.
It does not seek to scold or to censure,
but instead fills ordinary, small things
with a great longing for some adventure.
Only a rare few hear the song it sings,
and manage to evolve from slaves to kings.
26 JAN 2003