Look Away!

Last Sunday’s Storm
By Malcolm

Who whispers to you, the whispers you wave,
As your leaves, swishing, whip the horizon?
Whose face do you see, petals upturning,
As the storm mutes the song of orison?

Show Him to me! But hide me from truth!
Watch the artist, but follow the teacher.
Show the Artist to me, and I’ll follow the Muse
Whose silence bears the life of all creatures.

Who’s washing us, in the wish of water,
To be clean til we are purity’s crown?
Who’s asking us to lay in the river,
To drown, in the virgin-white shroud, unwound?

Pierce me, Truth! I don’t want You for my wife.
Split me, soften me, drain my poison.
I’ve eaten You, I’ve used You, I’ve betrayed You.
You’ve seen to my end, and made me a son.

Whose daughter is this, doubt’s kin, an orphan,
Who plucks at the daisies and weeps?
Whose clothes does she wear, so patched and threadbare,
As she sops up love’s crumbs in the streets?

Charity, small things, I have failed you!
The same One who inspires, thirsts too.
I, in thinking long, scorned thinking small.
I beg Mercy not to give me my due!


Not bad Malcolm! It has done you good to get away from the sonnet form for a little while. One question I have, though, is where this “virgin-white shroud” came from. It is not clear how one could drown in such a thing. Or, perhaps, you are likening the river to an unwound shroud? This image seems to be a departure from your usual clarity. This may not be a bad thing, given that all truly great poetry has an aspect of mystery. Beware, though, of obscurity for obscurity’s sake. Allow me to tell you a story.
Once, around the time of the War, the Muse descended on me like a giant glowing orb. Within that rarified air, I, the boy-poet in the bubble, could see all things with a clarity that, were you to taste even a crumb of it, would explode your head with it’s fulgurating beauty. I turned to my left, glanced at my canteen, and spontaneously erupted into such an ode to that water bearing artifact, that I heard the trees around me weep and beg for mercy. The canteen, vibrating in the etheric palpitations of my cascading waves of verse, was instantaneously absorbed into its archetype. I am told by my betters that it awaits me in heaven. But back to my story. In my rapturous state, I could have versified for hours, if not for a large black crow that sat, just out of my field of vision, cawing at me in the tree tops. I struggled in vain to pierce the mystery of that croaking maven. Just when it’s essence was within my mind’s grasp, it would fly to a further tree. I followed that flapping enigma for a fortnight and three quarters, to no avail. No verse quite captured what I saw, and what I saw never seemed to hold still. I was found by a troop-mate, wandering in a gibberfied state, babbling lines that, in their obscure obscenity, would make even a modern poet blush. In fact, the man who found me, and heard the worst of it, went on to become one of the most celebrated poets in the modern era. A delightful hack, to be sure!
I have told you this story as a warning. To become a poet, one must strive first for beauty, second for clarity. What, you may ask, of prophecy? Prophecy, my dear Malcolm, is the presence of obscurity in clarity, and this must never be sought! If it comes, it comes, but do not look at it! Let it look through you!
In addition, your image of the orphan in the streets is a bit maudlin. But then again, so are we!