Life’s but a walking shadow, a poor player
That struts and frets his hour upon the stage
And then is heard no more: it is a tale
Told by an idiot, full of sound and fury,
Signifying nothing.
William Shakespeare, Macbeth (1606), Act V, Scene 5
I
What must one do when warm passions compete?
(Nah, not those you think—though they, too, allure!).
I yearn to be a poet and ensure
Peace through irrationality’s defeat.
Can the same words engender both? Aesthete
And utopian—fine, aged blend, inured
(Through wit and confidence), decanted—pure
Effluvium. Nah, can’t be done—mere bleat.
I’ll tell you why: history’s dripping gall
Infuses poets’ blood (that bitter smut!),
Fertilizes fields they till. After all,
Life is “a tale told by an idiot!”
And life’s lewd sound and fury all rehearse
The dark and fecund metaphors of verse.
(6/6/09)
II
Poems don’t use words like “nationality”—
They evoke, provoke, flare emotional
Seizures—flip red fireworks that annul
Mind, heat passion, thwart rationality.
Poems don’t advance proportionality—
They claw your heart, explode your eyes, propel
To heights: love, wonder, rage—but don’t impel
Inner drives seeking peace, serenity.
Peace and poems are natural enemies.
One sired by reason, not that snarled gorgon
(Reptilian heart, unstable organ),
Where hate and glory viciously contend.
With aspirant words, I yearn to be both—
Peacemaker poet (mythic hybrid growth!)—
But mind and heart, alas, cannot plight troth.
(6/18/09)