This era is finished; it cannot walk […]
This era is finished; it cannot walk
Again. To start so young. That is
I: to cross the White Room and
Come out in strut of pleasèd gadfly;
Take my arm in Christmas-light
Neon and bright.
This whole passage is complete; it
Is followed only by markers. So shall
It be now, marked for later: “bring me
Hanging honour,” so I may shew thee
A craven flock that takes flight
Into the night.
Now for thee I bear a symbol. ’Twas thee who
Carried light unknowing in a stage
Unknown to thought but deep in
Courier’s journey; I accept thy seat
Inside my history; o, oval charm
Resting ever fair.
No heaven too perfect for thy calm:
No hell better suited to thy stare.
And so it ends: thankless and without fare […]
“And so it ends: thankless and without fare”
And so it ends: thankless and without fare,
A simulacrum of friendship that speaks
Only in professional dance and act,
Where you play the part that communicates
A song of respect and honest ranges.
Branded with names, branded with a black soul,
An aura surrounds you that speaks your curse
To all fine men and women of this land:
To fair forewarn them of your blackened gall.
But those of spirit innocent and free
Hold testimony that you have not failed—
Unrecognised by bold social tensions
But adored by those you protect, inform:
Yes, their care returned emboldens to try
A life in which you live, and do not fly
In fear to shrouded pandaemonium.
To hold such weight and never know, that is
Indeed the paradox of innocence:
To mean so much, and not ask in return
For anything but your time and presence.
Not to be so rude as to cast a shadow on Man […]
Not to be so rude as to cast a shadow on Man,
There nonetheless comes a time when he sees in himself
The Dane — young Hamlet — and manic in health
Declares his woes to be the tragedy of life—
Sees himself stare back in the cold, silent knife
And quotes on his own what he himself wrote,
When he was Shakespeare lamenting,
Drawn brow, and full of bile in throat.
He deceives in himself a contrivance of fate,
Augury defining his actions, ability to respirate;
But Eliot said he was not Hamlet at all: a mere player
Who danced until the curtain did fall
And then was heard no more.
So when thinking of old Yorick’s skull,
I pitch another young man who held an exhumed brain case’s hull
And held it to the wind in the lines between pages,
Who dug with a brute who recovered in long, delirious stages.
No readiness to speak, no strange oaths to adhere—
This hollow existence led to his mind discohere:
This post-modern man never received his dead Father’s call;
He lay still on the floor, and claimed that was all.
All his speech and physical custom was not as he perceived,
Words came out silent or from behind tortured tears;
Misunderstood man, young and infirm,
No braver than Hamlet, and by no-one believed.
So this is Man — to be eternally capsised, never reprieved
From crushing weights upon the crest; so We bear our cross,
Both young and infirm, caught between youth and adultery’s loss.
We take our blame and cast it forth: for no man hath yet
Taken the frame of the crucifix, not like He—
Man is yet to be.