Icarus splashed when he hit the water.
I was there; I, too, fell
As he fell, when he fell,
Feathers flying all around me,
Sun hot, wax running,
Sweat beading my brow.
He said to me as he regarded the water:
My father wasn’t strong enough
To pump his arms
In those leather strapped wings.
Everything was perfect:
The buckles were tight;
The wax was the best.
And I would have betrayed my kind:
All of the poets, dreamers, and innovators,
The trashy lot who loved me
Because of who I am,
If I didn’t strain to see
The faces of the gods.
Icarus gave Bruegel his ankle
And me this feather.
Archive for February, 1995
0
George
Posted: February 18, 1995 in PoetryTags: Angel, Ape, Child, Closet, Dark, Eden, Feather, Man, Sad, Seagull, Space, Wings
Sometimes I wish I could
Feel all four walls in the dark
From where I sit on this
Thinly carpeted floor –
Again, like a closet,
A most comfortable space
For one sad and lonely
Anthropomorphic ape.
One or two trips to the sunlight
Have sunburned him into
The hypocrisy he despised:
Loss of childhood and
Less of curiosity
Leaves George a more shallow man
And less of a wondrous angel.
Now he collects seagull feathers
For his bedside table
To remind him of
The wingspan he once had
In Eden.
The muse hasn’t abandoned me yet.
Hoping my tongue is as glib
As it can be loose, I fret
In the dark space of early morning
Writing poetry to assuage my heart;
Weighing heavy, almost mourning
That I am done for
As the low self-esteem comes creeping in
To squat on my stomach
And whisper words of seeming wisdom.
The screams and hisses of the coliseum
Cheer for my crucifixion;
The choice now is yours today:
Die of exposure
Or suffocation.
I’m trying to escape;
Now, too late
To unchoose what I chose
What seems like long ago.
The responsibilities come
Steady, now – steady
As the tide churns the sand
On the beach is another
Wrinkle in the lines of my hand.
Roll with the punches, punch drunk;
More are on their way,
There’s no use cursing
About the ones landed yesterday.
You stand on your viewpoint
Like the top of the mountain
As the floods rise,
Carrying off your unicorns.
They, like you
Were too proud for my ark;
For their pride,
We all have horses with no horns.
So tired that I hear a hum
Wherever I go
Like my stereo is on “loud”
With no input.
Doth the well run dry, milord?
Doth the grey matter weaken
And start its journey through your hair?
Your crown lies crooked
Until you seize the strength to right it.
So write it polished burning bright
And chase the Tygers from your nights.
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