Waste Land Of Modernism
© Surazeus
2015 02 08
Pausing at oak table in shadowed hall
of abandoned palace with broken pillars,
Michael grabs ancient leather Book of Myths
with pale trembling hand of exhausted hope,
but turns startled when locked window slams open
and large owl with gold eyes and long sharp claws
descends on gusting wind to stab his eyes.
Most American poets are still stuck
in the swampy waste land of Modernism,
clinging to the headless statue of Eliot.
Who is that standing now on Parnassos slope,
holding high light of liberty and truth,
and calls poets to climb mountain of tales?
Be honest about nature of your body
so who you are matches what you are well,
and reflects spirit of self you create.
If your art of music and poetry
depends on your puffed personality
and flashy performance on bright-lit stage,
then your art will fade away as you age
and disappear to nothing when you die.
Live the truth instead of living a lie.
If you do not think about me, do I
exist outside flashing dreams of your eyes?
All stars that exist weave one dreaming mind.
I may be gray-haired, half-deaf, gruff, and old,
but I do not wear my clean trousers rolled,
and I did dare disturb the universe
and sing about its state in epic verse.
For the humanist like me who loves reason
and methods of science for finding truth,
Athens is the holy city of wisdom.
He who walks thorn-sharpened trails without shoes
discovers the safest road to paradise,
and will return to show us the true way.
The gray stapler by the succulent orange
remembers every poem thrown in the trash
though the window is cracked from forty winters.
The oracular song of Orpheus glows
with luminous visions of profound hope
that fills my dark heart with urgent desire
to fly swift on wings of breathtaking faith
and dance with exhilarating compassion
on the legendary stage of illusion.
While I drive on long highway of desire
I see infinite tale of human life
written in ever-shifting shapes of clouds.
Writing an epic poem on scientists
is like running a long-distance marathon
one hundred times around the entire world.
Does Simon know he springs from teeming womb
of Anne Bradstreet, that sweet Puritan witch?
I sit under willow tree and paint words
of my dream on fragile butterfly wings.
Kitsune snarls that I wear yellow mask.
I love composing my long epic poem
in the coiled dynamic flow of blank verse.
In college I wanted to be a filmmaker
but I was poor so I took pen and paper
and now write epic poems of philosophers.
I love elegance of well-crafted verse
that undulates like singing tongues of waves
and calls me to swim in infinite light.
I heap up bits of information gleaned
from centuries of scientific research,
history, geography, and anthropology,
to forge epic poem about human life.
True meaning of life is that we invent
our own good reason to love and create
beauty in a meaningless universe.
Half my life was a movie dream I watched.
Then I went out and starred in my own movie.
No one is watching so I can play free.
The Hermead is a vast mountain of action
on which the million little modern lyrics
lie strewn and clack to echo its great song.
I strum my bone harp on Mountain of Hermes
and chant fragments of our lost memories
torn from encyclopedia of dreams.
Turning off the television, he stares
at the bottomless black screen of despair,
then laughs as he stands, and stares out the window
where no children play in the sparkling snow.
© Surazeus
2015 02 08
Pausing at oak table in shadowed hall
of abandoned palace with broken pillars,
Michael grabs ancient leather Book of Myths
with pale trembling hand of exhausted hope,
but turns startled when locked window slams open
and large owl with gold eyes and long sharp claws
descends on gusting wind to stab his eyes.
Most American poets are still stuck
in the swampy waste land of Modernism,
clinging to the headless statue of Eliot.
Who is that standing now on Parnassos slope,
holding high light of liberty and truth,
and calls poets to climb mountain of tales?
Be honest about nature of your body
so who you are matches what you are well,
and reflects spirit of self you create.
If your art of music and poetry
depends on your puffed personality
and flashy performance on bright-lit stage,
then your art will fade away as you age
and disappear to nothing when you die.
Live the truth instead of living a lie.
If you do not think about me, do I
exist outside flashing dreams of your eyes?
All stars that exist weave one dreaming mind.
I may be gray-haired, half-deaf, gruff, and old,
but I do not wear my clean trousers rolled,
and I did dare disturb the universe
and sing about its state in epic verse.
For the humanist like me who loves reason
and methods of science for finding truth,
Athens is the holy city of wisdom.
He who walks thorn-sharpened trails without shoes
discovers the safest road to paradise,
and will return to show us the true way.
The gray stapler by the succulent orange
remembers every poem thrown in the trash
though the window is cracked from forty winters.
The oracular song of Orpheus glows
with luminous visions of profound hope
that fills my dark heart with urgent desire
to fly swift on wings of breathtaking faith
and dance with exhilarating compassion
on the legendary stage of illusion.
While I drive on long highway of desire
I see infinite tale of human life
written in ever-shifting shapes of clouds.
Writing an epic poem on scientists
is like running a long-distance marathon
one hundred times around the entire world.
Does Simon know he springs from teeming womb
of Anne Bradstreet, that sweet Puritan witch?
I sit under willow tree and paint words
of my dream on fragile butterfly wings.
Kitsune snarls that I wear yellow mask.
I love composing my long epic poem
in the coiled dynamic flow of blank verse.
In college I wanted to be a filmmaker
but I was poor so I took pen and paper
and now write epic poems of philosophers.
I love elegance of well-crafted verse
that undulates like singing tongues of waves
and calls me to swim in infinite light.
I heap up bits of information gleaned
from centuries of scientific research,
history, geography, and anthropology,
to forge epic poem about human life.
True meaning of life is that we invent
our own good reason to love and create
beauty in a meaningless universe.
Half my life was a movie dream I watched.
Then I went out and starred in my own movie.
No one is watching so I can play free.
The Hermead is a vast mountain of action
on which the million little modern lyrics
lie strewn and clack to echo its great song.
I strum my bone harp on Mountain of Hermes
and chant fragments of our lost memories
torn from encyclopedia of dreams.
Turning off the television, he stares
at the bottomless black screen of despair,
then laughs as he stands, and stares out the window
where no children play in the sparkling snow.
Me too! (without the despair)
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