Way too much essay writing recently, which has been my daily regimen the last couple days. Here’s a poem.
Dormant, Couchant, Sejant, Rampant What moves a lion? Or, rather, what makes a lion move? Lazily lounged on some proud rock or nestled in soft long grass on a bright hot day soothed in gentle breeze. Safe, so safe, such a mighty beast not bound by other beings on the chain. What could trouble a lion to stir from sleep rising from a soft spot of ground to leave his dozing wives and children? Deep in the countryside in a kingdom of his own, resting in the stillness of the day and the songs of birds beneath the shady limbs of a baobab, with meals earned by the labors of others and the luxury to pardon passing beasts, why, why, would the lion ever move unless bid, unless made, to do so? And yet they do. Unless an illiterate beast put forth such a lie to fool nations, gods and kings, knights and athletes into striding forth with a flowing mane and regal posture claiming nobility for a scared kitty with unwieldy hair. I doubt this is the case. Sometime the lion had better stand up and roar. And roar they do, shattering the African night knocking jackals back instilling fright in cackling hyenas smashing leopards' courage to pieces and making great beasts a rotten feast for vultures. A snarling smile of sabers and swinging fists of scimitars giving way to thunderous voice and clapping paws. Bunched sinews and hulking mass a swishing tail wishing for a fight. A battle royal with royalty is a route to the boneyard. One could see a single lion with his pride backed into a corner raging against a score of foes scourging all who tread past bark for bite. So when he could lounge, tired on a sun-loved day, what beckons a beast who could lunge through fire to rise and fill the frame of a monarch with such a kingly disposition? Perhaps, for those with an oft-whispered roar reposing in languid indolence under jet black quilts of vespers- perhaps for them it is to waylay the suicide of the soul and trade lazy dreams and the nightmare of daily regicide and the burden of bearing two weighty prides and the heavy head of crown-wearing for the chance to, at the stirring of the soul but toss back their head and howl an air-rending call to heaven: "I am Resolved! to live! to live with all my might! while I do live!" This resolution - this sixth - it is sweeter. Perhaps man could learn something from a man-eater.