Friday, September 30, 2016

Romantic Poet Sick to Death of the Muse


Verily I have been lax with you 
Of late I know, but I swear 
Over the graves of my venerable 
Forebearers I will be lax no more— 

The next time I hear you 
Whistling in time to the lullaby 
Of bombs dropping softly 
Into laps of babes 

I shall drop everything, 
Drop straight to my knees 
And—dare I say it?— 
Pray you call no more. 




2 comments:

  1. Oh, my ... this is wonderful. Remember when they used to talk about "style and substance"? They are perfectly entwined here: the claims on imagination of all these atrocities against the desire for "higher things" which is the essence of Romanticism. We are all overwhelmed by brutality, which has become the only substance of journalism. And yet ... I'm sure you saw the video of the rescuer in Syria pulling the infant alive from the rubble. Oh, Muse, don't even try to speak of it! Or ... try. Do we have to suffer the unspeakable without responding?

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  2. I think you homed in admirably on the crux of this particularly agonizing dilemma, Joseph--thanks!

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