Il Migglior Fabbro

“Thee it behooves to take another road…If from this savage place thou wouldst escape”

-Virgil, Dante’s Inferno

“The depravity of man is at once the most empirically verifiable reality but at the same time the most intellectually resisted fact.”

-Malcolm Muggeridge

“Men deny Hell, but not, as yet, Hanwell.”

-G.K. Chesterton

Pound to Eliot

Are as you and I

For you have crafted longer

You have crafted swifter

You have felt the iron touch of term

The easy flow of phrase

I am not even skilled as Eliot, you may yet be greater

But Pound was wrong, and he grew sinister

Cynical, Satirical

His mind was left at the mercy of “empirical”

Doubting that which is good

Or if anything is...

Pound became a fool

(And you may yet)

But sincere

Walk the streets

Disbelief

Sit at lectures

Disbelief

Young man (though I am younger)

You are not Cohn

I fear it more

You need no Purple Land

I fear it more

You did not get it from Mencken

You did not get it from books

Birthed in your own

Spread like cancer

Oh, has it taken your blood?

Oh, will Hanwell take your heart?

Il Migglior Fabbro

See, what hath thou wrought?

For God hath not wrought it

Why do thou rot?

And do thou choose it?

Too close

Too close

Suicide of thought

Circles

Circles

Circles

‘Circles, what?’

‘What Circles?’

Circles

Il Migglior Fabbro

Will you be resurrected?

What beauty would bloom

If yet you would die

That you would be

Have the crying masses muted glory?

Ichabod is dead.

Never shall that word see fruition in the body

Joy has come

The glory rests on us,

But it does not depend

It will not end

I know not what to do with the masses

Or the raging of classes

I know not what to do with suicides, homicides

Abortions, starvation

But Joy has come

With it is compassion

…without it only obligation

And despite the poets

Men do little for duty

What have you done?

Love wins?

Nay, Love won.

It shall not be mutilated

Not by cheap wine

Un-intoxicating and sincere

Sincere!

Do not trust sincerity

It does not value justice

It does not care for truth.

And should you fatally ask

“What is truth?”

(Why does sincerity on its own always end in ambiguity?)

I will point to him

You must face alone

The God-Man

Do not be Uncle Andrew

Do not choose the roar

The song is sweeter

I dare say, more true

For all Lions roar

Only One sings

Circles

‘Circles?’

Paralyzed by Circles

You know the rut you walk

‘Circles?’

‘Circles.’

Il Migglior Fabbro

Better Craftsmen

I cannot make you craft again

Nor put your “new” craft to mend

New Ideas-Old Heresies

Chaff to be burned

Call now, on the Spirit then

For you cannot craft alone

I have not crafted alone

Il Migglior Fabbro

Better Craftsmen

You cannot make you craft again

Nor try “new” crafting

It must go in the garbage bin

Il Migglior Fabbro

Better Craftsmen

My friend

Eye of the Tempest

Shall I part my hair behind? Do I dare to eat a peach?    

I shall wear white flannel trousers, and walk upon the beach.    

I have heard the mermaids singing, each to each.            

I do not think that they will sing to me.   

-T.S. Eliot, The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock             

…And the tempest shows no end

(Repose)

Looking out the window

To see the weeping willow

It wraps you in its arms

Veils you from my eyes

The rows of white

Set forth before the tree

For parishioners and the like

Come from far and near, for thee

And what of me?

Oh, what of me?

How I do hate myself for living

While you are lost at sea

But wait, that’s me

For I lost myself along with you

Oh, what of me?

I am in the storm

And you have reached the shore

I stalk your shadow throughout the empty house

To catch you round the corner, to see you in the blouse

From your birthday last November

I walked into the garden to watch you labor

To enjoy your trademark quirks

To see your skin so fair

But it did not work

I roll over in bed and smell your hair

You are not there

Oh, you are not there

I hate the ones sitting, who still have ones to love

But wait, that is not me…I now descend the stair

But full of tears and hate, do I dare?

You will not this time quiet my tempest

Oh, you are not there

I am the storm

You were my shore

I read my words from long ago

I found them in your drawer

An honest note penned in indigo

It prophesied a happy life together

How could it perceive what came next?

Your shadow stains the letter

There are tears in the text

With you the world has passed me by

I try to be a man of civility

Oh, how I lie

And I am not who I should be

Sad, if you did see me

Torrential tears like rain

To blow away my dignity, mentality, sanity

No answer found, in this brief clarity        

And Oh, what of me?

(End Repose)

And the tempest shows no end…

Picture courtesy of: http://www.paintingsilove.com/image/show/317080/storm-at-sea

The Citadel

Dusk is falling

A dying Sun flings its last resistance

With force at the barrier of cloud

Rays broken and forced through

A sort of osmosis which dilutes

The orange glow illuminates the walls

And on the other side the shadow falls

It looms over the town

The dual lord of the land, The Citadel,

Both menacing and noble

He orders from the peak,

His host of hills

He watches as the river spills

It rushes forth, his bidding in mind

And seems to flood at his incline

The Citadel, windows boarded up

Doors blockaded, locked, and chained

Is forced to drink a bitter cup

The abandon of his fame

As people pass without a glance
This king of buildings

Shamed and on display

Left to sit and stay

Its pipes unused, rusty, forgotten

It’s wooden trim weathered, warped, and rotten

It’s courtyard taken by a hostile host

The weeds that defile all

Little left of which to boast

The old pool is dry and cracked

The highest towers sacked

The balconies’ railing disconnected and useless

The strength of time having given its abuses

The walls of the perimeter

Have not the strength to deter

Neither the homeless who sleep on the front porch

Nor the thieves and fools which rob its halls

Of whom profanity fills their calls

They rape its beauty with their lack of reverence

And look on it without preference

As if it were a horse’s stable

This palace, given care and time

Could become the richest dwelling

Sad to see the state of that beautiful hotel of hotels

The shame of The Baker of Mineral Wells

Funny to be so sad over a place

Odd to be so jealous of a building

Harder to think of this

Given ten years it won’t exist  

Photos courtesy of: http://www.texasescapes.com/TexasTowns/Mineral-Wells-Texas.htm

                              http://www.texasescapes.com/Ghosts/Floating-at-the-Baker-Hotel-Cloud-Room.htm

Burgers

Burgers

Two old people sitting across from each other

Each seems as if their spouse… is a bother

Or else not there at all

Table for four, sit in diagonal

They stare and frown

Youth talking all around

And all this time they speak no word, no sound

No sound escapes their lips

How long’s it been since contempt began? Why?

If only one would give up and break down. Cry.

But instead they stone up.

Doubtful still, will it erupt?

Chew on Burger

Take a drink, don’t murmur.

For if he speaks he fears his words will only hurt her.

Because he saved them long.

 They keep the marriage as that’s what Christians do.

 Façade doesn’t mean much, their life in true, in blue

Say they’re still together, doesn’t mean much

They go on eating lunch.

Couple of fries

And half an apple pie

They didn’t split it either, the lousy piece of pie

Their reputation is safe

They could always say what they ought to say, and hurt.

But saying is hard, and hurting really hurts.

In youth they heard union was divine.

But union lost, it does not shine

Chew on Burger

Take a drink, don’t murmur

For if she speaks she fears her words will only hurt him.

Because she saved them long…

…and it’s been so long since he kissed her

The Starving Artist

The Starving Artist?

What ever happened to the starving artist?

Who traded food for paint?

Who traded fame for truth?

Who died while still in youth?

Who took the path so rarely trodden?

Who died and was at once forgotten?

But at the end of an age, was revealed to be a sage.

Now we have the millionaire artist.

Who trades their soul for wealth.

Who trades the truth for a lie.

Who is greatly mourned for after they die.

But in a week passes into oblivion.

And whose ornate tombstone given them
In one hundred years will disappear.