Quod Scripsi, Scripsi

There is detritus everywhere.
It is as if the snake had traveled through,
oiled in poison.

The boney finger of the Reaper points.

Anoint, appoint, disjoint,
the words attach themselves,
as if Time were laid with rhyme.

I want to write a sonnet with a feather pen,
but the intricacies of then
evade me.

I am base emotion cut off from thought.

My art is of the synapse and the electric wire,
cut before the feed shuts off,
so snapping in fire.

If I say something profound
it is because nature has winds,
or the imago dei.

But I can no longer pretend this has meaning.

You want me to care?
I heard your reasons.
So again:
You want me to care?

Poetry is a social art,
and I have no society.

Imagine a toenail of God in empty space.

It would be quaint to end in Hindu, or some other tongue.
But such devices have swallowed themselves.

So here I am, post-rhetorical,
still stalked by Eliot and the ghost of grammar.

I must study Latin, or descend to the pit.

When the Son of Man returns, look ye,
shall He find faith on the earth?

Tell Him we are post-rhetorical,
and it no longer matters to me.

4 comments

  1. And it should not be changed, Dear Poet,

    A clear and faithful voice is a blessing for the speaker
    and for the audience.

    I read these lines fondly:

    “I want to write a sonnet with a feather pen,
    but the intricacies of then
    evade me”

    These thoughts come to my mind: Hold the pen lightly, sonnets
    will fill the page. The title of The Sonneteer was levied with well
    deserved honor. I think of Eliot. He was his own harshest critic,
    never believing his words were quite good enough and just look
    at the effect, the impact, and the timelessness. Fine sonnets are
    indeed an art form, and so too are the torn pages, the personal
    ‘Charlottesvilles’ and the summer boys. I can go on and on. Tights
    or not, sonnets or not, applause or not, a masterpiece is a masterpiece.

    Caring is not optional. It is always there. Dang thing just won’t let the poet
    alone.

    Mark,

    This poem will live long past the drying of all ink. It is the plight of the convicted
    spoken with intensity.

    Thank you for sharing it here.

    Sarah

    Like

  2. Mark,

    Love some of these lines.

    “My art is of the synapse and the electric wire”

    Brought to mind what goes on in the brain.

    “If I say something profound
    it is because nature has winds”

    So many things come to mind.
    We say something that nature itself inspires, and it seems
    profound to other humans.
    We say something that some perceive as profound
    but really it is just, the winds of chance, the winds of war,
    the winds of what thought hits people as important at the time.

    Still stalked by Eliot made me think of how some
    said Eliot’s poetry could be distancing to some.
    He used allusions to old poetry and writing
    and personal things that some didn’t get.
    He did not care. He knew what his poetry meant.
    I loved much of his work and read many a footnote. :0)

    Much enjoyed reading.
    take care,
    Kerri

    Like

  3. Hi Mark

    A very intense and engaging poem! I sort of find the narrator , as he begins, in the middle of a personal wasteland where nothing seems to inspire or have purpose. Words are there to be almost artificially attached for the sake of going through the motions of writing —

    There is detritus everywhere.
    It is as if the snake had traveled through,
    oiled in poison.

    The boney finger of the Reaper points.

    Anoint, appoint, disjoint,
    the words attach themselves,
    as if Time were laid with rhyme.

    I also sense a quiet desperation in the writer wanting to create something of meaning, something that has breath and fire that enlighten and linger but he falls short of this goal —

    I want to write a sonnet with a feather pen,
    but the intricacies of then
    evade me.

    I am base emotion cut off from thought.

    I think this so starkly and candidly defines what a writer goes through during periods of literary dearth and a lack of confidence in one’s work, at least in its impact and value. However, the ghost of poetry and the need to write continue to stalk and haunt that individual. I really enjoyed reading this; and as a writer could personally relate to a situation like this.

    Thank you for sharing,
    another exceptional poem, here.
    Wendy

    Like

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