Who says even sleeping Men are doing the world’s Business and helping it On its way though he also adroitly Avoids mentioning they should not be As sleepwalkers perambulating out there In broad daylight trying to show us The right and true way.
Someone writes And shows you how To say what you’ve been Wanting in in every way; Try though you may, you will Never find the words To thank him—it’s as if He’s your other self now Lost in packing up those words That always want to get away.
Moderator’s comments: The apotheosis of the absurd in only eleven words; however, what remains of my frazzled logic impels me to peg the odds at 99-1 that prior to writing this “exercise in futility,” Cinquor envisaged the specter of the great Archimedes (https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Archimedes) uttering his famous last words “Do not disturb my circles” just before an enraged, mathematically ignorant Roman soldier “put him in a pine box” for what he thought was insubordination when, in reality, all the good mathematician had in mind was to continue his line of thought undisturbed, outside the box!
More than likely, The perfect poem is never Going to be there when You need it, even if You’ve just cut your veins And are waiting patiently For divine inspiration to save you From a fate worse than death.
The next time you sit down to write Something mind-blowing right
Off the top of your head, Take what’s left
Of your brains with you.
Moderator’s comments: What a relief! Our resident gadfly had been out of sight and out of mind so long that I was ready to abandon all hope of ever hearing from him again, so you can understand how elated I was when I received another one of his delicious little gems. With this one in particular, without his resorting to overblown poetic hyperbole, we can see how Huuk has hit the proverbial nail on the head once more and demonstrated how futile it is to have your artistic cake and eat it too—unless the poet in question has enough smarts left over to return to his senses before he suffers irreversible damage to his powerful albeit very misguided “inspirational” ego by overshooting it.
“the fingers on the rim, as the poet put it.” —George Seferis, Mythistorema #2*
The wild fig tree that has put down roots Deep in its depths and taken over The well’s mouth tells us no more Wishing here—the ropes have broken And the grooves on its lip serve
To remind us those lines of maidens Who pulled up pail after pail of water Year after year have long since departed, And where once there was nubile skittery, Domesticated stony silence is all we hear.
*The “poet” referred to is Dionysios Solomos,
and the phrase cited is from his prose work,
The Woman of Zakynthos, Chap.I.