Wednesday, 17 May 2023

#1232 - portrait for the poet of genius


 

1232

17.v.23

4.137

portrait for the poet as genius

it is of course a question of honour

 

needn’t think he knows

 

and oh the neglect!

the lack of recognition!

 

for the poet who is owed an apology

 

for the one who must be

the only poet in the room

in the country

in the whole wide world

 

just this one

 

garret abject

Christ-like in filth

for a borrowed squalor

 

imagine the unexpurgated anthology of him

none whom he could set beside

 

get this posture

crick in the neck

the nervous tick

 

the hybris!

 

a wink

and I think

that you know who I mean

 

a kind of Voldemort of verse

one must not say his name

 

it’s the poet who is visited by strange fairies

as bad as religion

who is tied to the mast for the siren call

 

victim of landscape, reality, fact

 

who must not read the iconoclast word

one day this face on a coffee mug

his will be done

his breakfast as foretold

 

who never lifts a finger

because, after all

a solipsism – just as the prophets!

 

a one man incantation

came in a cloud

intoxicating presence

 

the one who won’t clean up after himself

 

angrier over time

more gloomy

 

to whom in all glory

they must furnish the flowers

the garden and gone

 

for whom the regular rules do not apply

 

who doles the symbols out

as if God gave to him alone

 

who has not mission, conscience, truth

for the transcendental one

for the mirror man

mere plagiarist of life

 

poet who won’t get over himself

who cannot make a difference

who does not give a damn

 

who needn’t make poems

because he just is

 

what presence!

even wordlessly!

 

and yet to whom so precious  

to whom the lines adoring come

 

and settle on the sacred vellum

o touch his hem

and weep with pride!

 

with whom the muses take their turns

lucky girls

 

end of the bed, smoking after

still hot

 

whom only death must recognize

sad nod

did you ever meet the great man?

 

then and only

they will collect his least droppings

they are sweet!  sweet!

a kind of manna for the mortals

 

no one in his life would understand

not wife

not the far and bastard descendants

tribe of orphans long disowned

 

to such a one

I have to say

the cage is open

it always was

 

will the animal come out?


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