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Poetry Magnum Opus

Heaven Awaits the Few


dedalus
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I have been working on this piece for the last couple of days, and it is very very slowly coming together. Thrown out about two-thirds of the original composition (including some killer lines which, undoubtedly, will show up in later poems) and I’m trying to get the blessed MF off the ground!

 

Sorry, but as you probably know, this writing thing can drive you crazy!

 

 

Darkness descends upon darkness

in a night devoid of stars.

 

The world has come:

Jesus Christ, the world has come,

and you and I are still here.

 

Mister Prime Minister,

Mister President.

Mister Pope,

we need to do something,

at a time when

little is longer possjble.

 

Unhidden or bidden evil descends,

now all bereft of disguise,

in its subtle smiling way.

 

But we knew that back in the time

when things were simple, harsh, murderous,

and when I went wjth with you to the dull green marshes

 

of East Anglia, I watched you shoot and shoot again

at the outraged foreign ducks.

I watched you miss them all; but mostly, I remember,

 

what an accomplished bloody liar you were,

 

and so I arranged, consequently, to have you removed,

which was done expeditely, silently,

and I’ve been assured with speed and little pain.

 

You were biffing my first wife at the time,

but the policy requirements had their demands

and your little life just came up wanting;

so after I put in the paperwork (two carbon copies)

they whacked you, blamed it on the other side,

 

and that, as they say, was that.

Now, thirty years along the road,

I putter along, alive, in my circumscribed,

rather dark and unpleasant walled-in garden,

and entertain some doubts about those days.

 

Were you possibly innocent?

The rest of us, categorically, were innocent,

but in a very different, even troubling sense.

 

It was born of duty, love, and yes, stupidity.

Pariotism? Faith of our Fathers, to hell with the bloody King!

I can no longer read the newspapers,

nor watch the television news.

 

It’s just a buzz in my ears, whirring angry hornets,

and so I flee into the gloomy garden,

where I find no relief at all.

 

Mr Prime Minister,

Mr President,

Mr Pope …

 

how long,

how long do you go jiffy-dancing

before you tell us you don’t know?

 

 

Drown your sorrows in drink, by all means, but the real sorrows can swim

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A most observant and heart-felt work.

 

at a time when

little is longer possjble.

 

when things were simple, harsh, murderous,

 

and so I flee into the gloomy garden,

where I find no relief at all.

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A brilliant excavation. Glad you are hammering this beast out! Very profound and very much in the lines of my obsession with not knowing!

 

Rather loved it.

 

Juris

thegateless.org Come on over and check out my poetry substack y'all;-) Or if your bored, head to the Zazzle store: https://www.zazzle.com/store/gateless. If you buy anything I lose a bet, so consider that before you violate the digital rules.

 

Gate(less.png

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Knowing how you favor honesty and frankness (ha), though I seldom critique, (because I do not feel qualified), I will say that this presentation seems quite drawn out while tied to a slender theme. Just one opinion, and you can't please everyone, especially a cynical old fart. Still, I enjoyed the poem.

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I could cut back a few stanzas more, I suppose, but so much is already on the cutting room floor!

Drown your sorrows in drink, by all means, but the real sorrows can swim

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Stop the cutting, its rather good as it is! (of course) that's just my opinion, but we can cut surgically forever until its gone, gone, gone away!

 

;-)

 

J

thegateless.org Come on over and check out my poetry substack y'all;-) Or if your bored, head to the Zazzle store: https://www.zazzle.com/store/gateless. If you buy anything I lose a bet, so consider that before you violate the digital rules.

 

Gate(less.png

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I agree let it stand.

As with much of your work, each reading, brings up different interesting aspects. My first thought was: that things we once felt important become jaded by time and how we are collectively misled. And my strange mind moves to images of one juggler, passing spinning Indian clubs over to another juggler; the only objective being continuity...and the next juggler. No reasons or answers. B

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  • 4 weeks later...

I always enjoy your stories -- they're very entertaining -- but I tend to favor the shorter, lyrical poem. I know others have said keep, don't cut, but here goes:

 

Darkness descends upon darkness

in a night devoid of stars.

 

The world has come:

Jesus Christ, the world has come,

and you and I are still here.

 

Mister Prime Minister,

Mister President.

Mister Pope,

we need to do something,

at a time when

little is longer possible.

 

Unhidden or bidden evil descends,

now all bereft of disguise,

in its subtle smiling way.

 

It’s just a buzz in my ears, whirring angry hornets,

and so I flee into a gloomy garden,

where I find no relief at all.

 

Mr Prime Minister,

Mr President,

Mr Pope …

 

how long,

how long do you go jiffy-dancing

before you tell us to go?

 

 

 

(To heaven, that is.) I don't have A.D.D that I know of, but perhaps it is just my attention span. This cuts the narrative and reduces it to the "poetical."

 

By all means, make it yours, Brendan. I just wanted to illustrate another idea/option.

 

 

Tony

Here is a link to an index of my works on this site: tonyv's Member Archive topic

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  • 2 weeks later...

Thanks, Tony. Just saw this today. (I am obviously not scanning comments on recent poems). Frankly, each one of them is a total pain in the ass because there are so many options, so many possible ways to go. The small decisions are endless. I have rescued poems - and possibly ruined some good ones - by jettisoning whole stanzas. It's a ridiculous unrewarding line of work ... and I would have to say I hate and love it. Death will finally shut me down (suddenly, a great silence), but in the meantime I'll keep banging away!

 

Cheers, Bren

Drown your sorrows in drink, by all means, but the real sorrows can swim

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