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Ancient Responses Two ancient responses to uncertainty wrestle within me, two preferences. Life serves these drugs, but has no meaning: that gives them their poignancy. Art, religion – this sea, those Charybdis rocks, those sirens. I sketch these lines in a storm, like a man with a branch trying to catch fire. I am fat, and ugly, and the only thing that is real is beauty – So I make my song. A young blonde girl skirts the surf, a seagull glides. Everything else is of little worth, but insistent, as if I owe it my time, as if I should be happy to have it own me. Sometimes an angel inside me lies, and says it could have been different for me. The communal malady, yes, would go on, he says, but you could have built a shelter. My human failings stare back at me in the mirror of nature. A coxcomb hangs from a tree limb, a shield on another, on another a bra. A big black crow searches my lawn for sundry. Later, the high moon will sing and the tawdry will become eerie. It will be too late, and not enough. Horace said, Carpe diem, quam minimum credula postero, mixing my art, Poetry, and my religion, Latin. He said it, but I doubt he meant it, and know he couldn’t have been content. He wasn’t my neighbor, or American. He had to have been more like me, than them. |
This Poem was Critiqued By: Joe Gustin On Date: 2015-06-06 20:55:30
Critiquer Rating During Critique: 10.00000
I love how you blend love and hate and philosophy. Just brilliant.