poetry history and the sea: vi

in dismal grey i wandered back, along the aimless cobblestones, breathing shallow thoughts. days stretched into weeks, months: my slow soul slept. i took up drinking, which made me hunger; took up smoking, which made me thirst. the drab brick walls closed in around, and City growled low and menacing, chasing me toward gloomy hills.

i met History in a cemetery, pause-walking in unkempt grass; he stooped to right a heavy-fallen headstone. we pondered on along, stride for step, and i asked him how long, dear friend, how long--have we lost forever Poetry? he told me gently Death is jealous of his own, and always has.

we came to a river, dark and rushing, and found the Sea quite weak within; he told us of a partial man who'd leapt to Death upon his bulk. i listened quietly and walked apart, leaving two silent forms behind: shattered triune, sharing grief to keep mere memories alive.

if only had the Sea's poor partial man been whole!--but ah, cruel Death is jealous of his own.

and i thought of you, o departed poetry: how you would have wept and come to joy, in your cavernous gentle eyes.




poetryhistorysea.blogspot.com
August '09