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The Cause.
by
sean coughlan |
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To be a poet
Is to be blessed
And yet, obsessed.
Your friends wonder about you
As you wander off-
Not just down a laneway
But to the edge of sea
Pursuing a misting spray
Of oil of alabaster.
You sit on buses-
Or any public transport-
And stare into people
Delighting in their kind souls
Or wishing,desperately,
To soothe their seeping wounds.
You love and hate other poets;
Admiring their divine insights
But remain ever suspicious
Of plagiarism and meanness
As you realise
There is no Utopia for poets
Only single sculls
In a Cambridge eight boat -race.
You look into your own, drunken heart
And recoil in terror
Because you see the agony of man.
You are at the gates of Dante's Inferno
Having followed the Rake's progress
Until shriek of owl wakes you.
You rise to write,
Trying to make sense of desultory dreams,
While shadows still cling
To a dank, moribund world
And,
Pencil in hand,
Scratching at paper,
You realise
You are possessed.
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--Submitted by Lev Yashin on 2013-11-18.
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