My death days --
Strange and wondrous --
Will come soon enough.
I can feel their thrum
At the edge of my mind,
A slow and rumbling pulsation
That signals
The END is nigh.
I don't fear them.
Like a rumbling freight train,
I assume they won't plow
Through my front door --
But, rather, will wait for me
To become freight.
Oh me! Oh life! of the questions of these
recurring,
Of the endless trains of the faithless,
of cities fill'd with the foolish,
Of myself forever reproaching myself,
(for who more foolish than I, and who
more faithless?)
Of eyes that vainly crave the light, of the
objects mean, of the struggle ever
renew'd,
Of the poor results of all, of the plodding
and sordid crowds I see around me,
Of the empty and useless years of the
rest, with the rest me intertwined,
The question, O me! so sad, recurring --
What good amid these, O me, O life?
Answer.
That you are here--that life exists and
identity,
That the powerful play goes on, and you
may contribute a verse.
Write me a spell:
A tiny bit of magic --
Nothing massive
Or mind-blowing --
Just a simple piece
Of Magic.
Waking to a world in which
Space & Time misbehave:
Shapes slump,
Even melting into pools,
Oozing to flatness, then
Over the edge and
Into nowhere.
Time moves in riverine fashion:
Rushing in the chokepoints
And lazing in the wide plains.
Though still flowing
Inexorably and unidirectionally.
The illusion tries
To reveal itself,
But who can understand...
How they are provided for upon the earth,
(appearing at intervals;)
How dear and dreadful they are to the earth;
How they inure to themselves as much as to
any -- What a paradox appears their age;
How people respond to them, yet know them not;
How there is something relentless in their fate,
all times;
How all times mischoose the objects of their
adulation and reward,
And how the same inexorable price must still
be paid for the same great purchase.
I see the writing on the wall,
and find it untrustworthy
because of all the stories
of valiant warriors
framed for treason
with forged poems
scrawled on tavern walls.
And of the virtuous men
who did write rancorous poems,
but did so while blackout drunk.
And I wonder whether the words
I am seeing are forged or written
under the influence
of intoxicants,
or -- possibly -- they are the truth.
But I cannot read them,
so I find them irrelevant,
though they may convey
crucial information,
such as:
- the existence of a vampire infestation, or
- the presence of cholera in the town well.
So, I can see the writing on the wall,
but I find it neither trustworthy
nor relevant --
(though my life may depend
on its contents.)
Many particles to the atom,
Many atoms to the molecule,
Many molecules to the cell,
Many cells to the tissue,
Many tissues to the organ,
Many organs to the system,
Many systems to the organism...
And so it goes,
The many always viewable as
a larger ONE.
Cold, wet leaves
Floating on moss-coloured water
And the croaking of frogs --
Cracked bell-notes in the twilight.
The Black Riders and Other Lines by Stephen Crane
Behold, the grave of a wicked man,
And near it, a stern spirit.
There came a drooping maid with violets,
But the spirit grasped her arm.
"No flowers for him," he said.
The maid wept:
"Ah, I loved him."
But the spirit, grim and frowning:
"No flowers for him."
Now, this is it --
If the spirit was just,
Why did the maid weep?
Tiger Riding for Beginners 