Siegfried
That is not it,
she said,
that is not what I meant at all.
Might I step back then?
he said,
Behind the line that I just crossed?
The invisible barrier we both knew was there
but chose to see through -
it couldn't hold me forever
and I finally dared to step forward
to lay at your feet on the threshing floor.
May we return, you and I,
to the days when I would glean from
flaxen fields of grain
until the end of day
beneath vermilion dusk?
No, the gate has closed behind you,
she said,
and all has changed going forward,
behind you is a blurry mess,
and here is searing clarity.
This is where I'm supposed to be,
you run along.
No!
he said,
I didn't know I'd make it so far,
I don't know how to go on!
Arrival was the battle,
how unjust that I should take the field
just to make my grave here.
I cannot bear the shame,
my armor cannot hide me
and my sword is dulled.
Poor man,
I say,
who won't meet tomorrow
like he received today.
How wasteful,
how profane.
Slaying a wyrm to become a worm
all the same.
Category Archives: Poems
Dormant, Couchant, Sejant, Rampant
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.
eloquent mumbler 