Cold rain falls in the river, flows down to the sea, gets into the skyline, circles endlessly. Same old rain on the wind, same old pain in my soul.

Tuesday, November 9, 2010

The Poet Will Die

There are men and women who climb mountains, row great oceans, and rediscover who gives a shit poles. National Geographic is littered with the remains of the many who never returned. They are called explorers.
And they knew the risks.
Many had careers and lives envied of all that knew them, and yet, they trekked., knowing the cost and odds.
See, it's all about vision. Simply put, they could see beyond sales quotas, beyond 401k, beyond the securities of safety and well played. They could see even beyond the mountain, the distant shore, the barren pole. They could see the feel that lies in the doing.
Poets, of which I am not, can see that feel as well, though their range of vision can claim no goal nor know of any great glory.
The K2 that draws them is the life within death, the sorrow in great joy, and the hatred within love. They see the contrast in life and explore it with their blood.
It is never enough for them to love, they must rip the heart from chest and explore the why. And then do it again.
They must get down and dirty with all that plays out before them. Satisfaction in contentment can only mean failure and the beauty of a rose shall not get off so easily while their thorns spill blood.
Therefore, when the hawk soars full of life, the rabbit never dies alone and unseen. When children cry for food and lovers for justice, the poet sees their feel and bleeds their heartache. And a perfect sunrise is only a means to hope for storms.
Bankers shall live to dispense currency to the car mechanic who buys his house to keep his family happy while he repairs the bankers car. It is an age old system of barter that plays out well in love, war and politics. But the poet tumbles free of this circle unable to find purpose or worth in any of it.
And she writes what only she can understand and see, knowing her words will wash away in the clocks of ancient fixture and the speeches of great promise.
Therefore, the poet will die.

in every beast, a hunger grows
to thirst, for tomorrow's fresh dew
and the lover says shall we
in the new fallen rain
and together they walk
but alone

and a flower blooms
wild and true
where politics bled her men dry
in fateful excursion
leaving their passions
in fields of martyrs passed by

the sower seeds
while the painter creates
and the violins
spin blue into gold
but somewhere below
and beyond the turned earth
beyond the white fields of fresh snow
where new borns dredge
the souls of before
they must sing a new song
 of great old

and this story new
it must be told
in a thousand
shades of pain bourne
bled from the prick
she knew in great need
 to balance the weight
of her scorn
the poet will kill her
to die his sweet self
in the murder
that no one shall mourn

so here and now
let's drink to he
and her, and all
that ever they see
for tomorrow, the poet
shall surely die
so tonight
let's just let him be