Thursday, April 12, 2007

Answering The Hollow Men: A Poem

In timid trepidation I post this.
A poem dedicated to, and about, our tragic generation.


From the vineyards they called
Knowing only the languages they spoke
Sure of none else than the grapes
Positive of possibilities presented to choke
If yelling from the rooftop gave no response
Then at the heart of wine country they camped
Blowing hard and knowing all
But so uncarefully they stepped and they tramped

And we for all our beauty could watch,
To watch and nothing else was it, we thought.
And to be content or being contented
Was something we loved to be taught
Ease was not the hard thing to do
Not even if we went the hard way about it
So a satisfied face was normal
Satisfaction became a lie and an excuse to quit

Quitting was not supposed to be in our blood
It wasn’t a nervous system it was the nervous system
Sweat beading on our brow, breath speeding or slowing
Waiting in curiosity for a name to be christened
Those who made jokes of the poets already named
Shook as if in the rain or snow
And smugness could not truly hide
Anything they didn’t want us to know

Playfully ladies danced a distraction dance
Skillfully they played on emotions running high
As if control was handed over from the start
To anyone claiming the keys to the sky
Blame was passed like a well packed pipe
And it smoked and burned a widening hole
In the fabric we constructed to clothe
The ugliness we thought was part of the whole

There were some who claimed not to be affected by beauty
When beauty was the only thing worth being affected over
The man admitting this was carefully concealed, he thought.
At the utterance, forced to dip and dive for cover
Scared by the fearful, ah, a fate so reviled
To be afraid, when the true fear should have been to be feared
Conversing would be reduced at such a rate unforeseen
Towards the screen door a path freshly speared

Sordidly, wonderfully attached to country and form
Gamely making love to the stars under the moon.
Like a plan of action unconcerned with the ends
A severed love is or was to be reattached soon.
So soon to be relieved of pain sure to kill
That I jumped to be reformed and then reshaped
By the hands of the drivers on top, underfoot
On the southern tip of the continents great cape

Such a lovely way about it to be so lovely,
But a clean manner of thought was only sterile clean
The future could be foretold when only white lay ahead
But being enveloped by the cape was a fate not foreseen
A fate for those we might have thought fools.
Did they know our thoughts? Could it be they cared?
If we didn’t care was it to be expected of them
The only thing expected was being what none dared.

Is the argument not to argue one wondered
For if all others shouted then to be quiet was dissent
But taught the opposite we confused us
Was there something unknown we were missing?
Shoved into a pigeonholed yelling hole
Was considered a way to solve the ills.
And in this vacuum devoid of compassion
Was a place missing the blanket to abate our chills.

Abated and ebbed the tide was this way and that
Cause and effect were the effects of slice and dice thought,
You could only hope that you could see through the mire
And a glimmer of true knowledge could possibly be caught
Great thinkers and liars broke the mold they said.
They stood up to the tyrants and made the world right
But suppose the tyrants were stopped before their tracks were laid
Would the saviors be cast in any such light?

Is it worth to need heroes in the tattered, torn world?
Or can’t everyone be a hero in order to save us all
Then names could lose importance like scars are lost
And no names or saviors would need be called.
And in the moment of truth when the brave ones stood
We were told of the odds, in hopes that we’d forget:
That either something will happen or it won’t
And because of this nothing has happened yet.


1 comment:

Tiffany said...

Beautiful. Can I print it and keep it with your other poems I have? Just out of curiosity, what do you feel is the tragedy of your generation? Complacency? Apathy?
T. Nichols