Ode to the Abandonment of Poetry

 

I

Was I failing you, boring you? So you grabbed your Boho coat,
your Trilby hat, your sheaf of song sheets, and stole away, down
some sibylline road.

Or, is this how old goes? Onset of senescence. Like piranha, advancing.
Nibbling, invading, the delicate shallows of meiosis; the discreet beaches
of mitosis, indiscriminate of bone or brain, sinew or cerebrum.

O, fear-and-wonder body—intricately and seamlessly knit, twilled,
latticed and lit with mind and imagination, soul if you will—
you have seen a caravan of years, and now, well into your “carnival
of losses,” your verses are hearses and your songs are all dirges.

II

Today, a friend arrived. He spoke the language of quiet lakes
reflecting ancient mountains. A dialect of mile-deep blues
and greys that yet glitter.

And I lifted my face toward the August foothills, where
white spruce and paper birch, where even wizened tamarack,
make no assumptions of season’s turns.

And the grey alder said: Do not let your heart be troubled.
              It is not your province
              to compose your epilogue. Go, wade
through your restive weariness, rise to your twilight mind,
perhaps to collide again with bursts of clarity, accidents of light.

Poetry may yet have news for you, news
you can’t get any other way.

 

16 Comments

  1. “Go, wade through your restive weariness, rise to your twilight mind, perhaps to collide again with bursts of clarity, accidents of light.”

    Beautifully captures the unknown mysteries that make up each moment

  2. What a timely perspective this week while assembling and reviewing personal writings of yore, “perhaps to collide again with bursts of clarity”, to share with posterity. Thanks, Steve! Ike

  3. This is exquisite. I could cheer after reading the last lines!
    Here’s to more conversations in the language of deep lakes.

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