Ode On A Television
© Surazeus
2014 12 02
After reading Ode on a Grecian Urn
written by starry-eyed poet, John Keats.
You elegant woman in glittering gown,
you rainbow ghost on some far studio stage,
famous pop star who holds black microphone,
standing tall before listening audience,
and sings enchanting words that carry high
our souls that ache for loss of love you chime,
what flashing beams of light shine down on you
to bright illuminate your glowing face
so watching cameras broadcast far and wide
clear image of your soul on evening show,
allowing millions of people in homes
of a thousand cities sea to shining sea
to watch your face and hear your ringing voice?
What ancient temple, built of marble walls
with arching roof upheld by pillared row
on towering pyramid of ancient land,
now shines enclosed in television screen
where Muses stood before pleased worshippers
to sing enchanting tales of warriors
and mighty kings whose wit and strength of arms
established great empires of power and good
so loyal citizens who obey word
of his divine authority on truth
may gather close in hall of wealth to feast
and celebrate their right to live and breed?
I thought we overthrew all haughty kings
who reigned with sword of judgment for quick death
in castle hall on hill where god once stood,
and cast away all priests of ritual halls
to equalize all men in democracy,
yet still all ancient gods and kings emerge
to play their roles again in social play
as movie stars and singers we admire
who dramatize our deepest fears and hopes,
as kings and goddesses of love once lived
on pyramids of power that peasants built
so prettiest women and strongest men
could play god and goddess in palace hall.
Eternal soul of tribal leader god
returns again as man we vote to play
king disguised as president in White House,
and eternal soul of goddess of love
returns again as woman who wins game
of beauty pageant to reign with jeweled crown,
individual people of flesh and blood
who represent for short terminal time
god and goddess who preside in bright hall
over rituals of beauty, power, and prestige,
when normal man or woman who wins game
ascends pyramid to rich paradise
in apotheosis that transforms mortal
of chemical flesh into divine concept
who embodies idea in character
of perfect human achievement we adore.
Then we play campaign and pageant again,
and new mortals replace mortals in roles
of power and beauty when old fade away,
weak and wrinkled by all-consuming time.
Alone I meditate in four-walled home,
inside small cell addressed on one small street,
in one small town in labyrinth of cities
connected by millions of miles of roads
where time-machine cars glide swifter than wind
from sea to shining sea of our vast empire,
and watch immortal goddess of love sing
enchanting song that weaves sweet melodies
of nostalgic love, and hope for perfect bliss,
that connects my heart, where I sit alone,
to millions of other hearts who watch show
on glowing television screen with me,
and our souls flow upward over vast land
in spiral of spirits who sing among stars.
Then flashing scene on television screen
cuts away to commercial for sleek car
that glides gleaming on winding mountain road,
and once again I sit alone and lost,
nameless nobody who waits in silent room
for beautiful woman in glittering gown,
Goddess of Love and Muse of faithful hope,
to once again appear with microphone
on television screen to smile and sing.
No more than flicker of colorful light
on blinking television screen, she stands,
immortal goddess beaming from mortal woman,
then aching desire to hold her in my arms
and kiss her lips and gaze in flashing eyes,
and share sweet pure passion of tender love,
grips my heart with hopeless longing to embrace
pure beauty and dance with her on star stage.
So instead I stand and breathe evening air,
press red button on black remote control
to blank enchanting television screen,
then play my own game in small private play,
composing epic poem of scientists,
kissing my wife who sews intricate scenes,
and playing with my daughters in game of cats
by star-lit window in our nowhere home
that no one sees on television screen.
You are immortal and remote from me,
Goddess of Love on television screen,
but my wife of flesh and blood is more real,
so we embrace and kiss in our paradise.
Though my wife and I will grow old and die
we live forever in souls of our daughters.
© Surazeus
2014 12 02
After reading Ode on a Grecian Urn
written by starry-eyed poet, John Keats.
You elegant woman in glittering gown,
you rainbow ghost on some far studio stage,
famous pop star who holds black microphone,
standing tall before listening audience,
and sings enchanting words that carry high
our souls that ache for loss of love you chime,
what flashing beams of light shine down on you
to bright illuminate your glowing face
so watching cameras broadcast far and wide
clear image of your soul on evening show,
allowing millions of people in homes
of a thousand cities sea to shining sea
to watch your face and hear your ringing voice?
What ancient temple, built of marble walls
with arching roof upheld by pillared row
on towering pyramid of ancient land,
now shines enclosed in television screen
where Muses stood before pleased worshippers
to sing enchanting tales of warriors
and mighty kings whose wit and strength of arms
established great empires of power and good
so loyal citizens who obey word
of his divine authority on truth
may gather close in hall of wealth to feast
and celebrate their right to live and breed?
I thought we overthrew all haughty kings
who reigned with sword of judgment for quick death
in castle hall on hill where god once stood,
and cast away all priests of ritual halls
to equalize all men in democracy,
yet still all ancient gods and kings emerge
to play their roles again in social play
as movie stars and singers we admire
who dramatize our deepest fears and hopes,
as kings and goddesses of love once lived
on pyramids of power that peasants built
so prettiest women and strongest men
could play god and goddess in palace hall.
Eternal soul of tribal leader god
returns again as man we vote to play
king disguised as president in White House,
and eternal soul of goddess of love
returns again as woman who wins game
of beauty pageant to reign with jeweled crown,
individual people of flesh and blood
who represent for short terminal time
god and goddess who preside in bright hall
over rituals of beauty, power, and prestige,
when normal man or woman who wins game
ascends pyramid to rich paradise
in apotheosis that transforms mortal
of chemical flesh into divine concept
who embodies idea in character
of perfect human achievement we adore.
Then we play campaign and pageant again,
and new mortals replace mortals in roles
of power and beauty when old fade away,
weak and wrinkled by all-consuming time.
Alone I meditate in four-walled home,
inside small cell addressed on one small street,
in one small town in labyrinth of cities
connected by millions of miles of roads
where time-machine cars glide swifter than wind
from sea to shining sea of our vast empire,
and watch immortal goddess of love sing
enchanting song that weaves sweet melodies
of nostalgic love, and hope for perfect bliss,
that connects my heart, where I sit alone,
to millions of other hearts who watch show
on glowing television screen with me,
and our souls flow upward over vast land
in spiral of spirits who sing among stars.
Then flashing scene on television screen
cuts away to commercial for sleek car
that glides gleaming on winding mountain road,
and once again I sit alone and lost,
nameless nobody who waits in silent room
for beautiful woman in glittering gown,
Goddess of Love and Muse of faithful hope,
to once again appear with microphone
on television screen to smile and sing.
No more than flicker of colorful light
on blinking television screen, she stands,
immortal goddess beaming from mortal woman,
then aching desire to hold her in my arms
and kiss her lips and gaze in flashing eyes,
and share sweet pure passion of tender love,
grips my heart with hopeless longing to embrace
pure beauty and dance with her on star stage.
So instead I stand and breathe evening air,
press red button on black remote control
to blank enchanting television screen,
then play my own game in small private play,
composing epic poem of scientists,
kissing my wife who sews intricate scenes,
and playing with my daughters in game of cats
by star-lit window in our nowhere home
that no one sees on television screen.
You are immortal and remote from me,
Goddess of Love on television screen,
but my wife of flesh and blood is more real,
so we embrace and kiss in our paradise.
Though my wife and I will grow old and die
we live forever in souls of our daughters.
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