Truth Of The Not Wheel
© Surazeus
2018 08 02
While searching through the ruins of the world
I find the old poet with silver hair
by the mill-pond at the end of the garden
who slouches listening to the ancient wheel
revolving in the stream of singing water,
then asks me if I can see the Not Wheel.
I try to tell him I can see the wheel
but he insists there is no turning wheel
then laughs and takes his hands out of his pockets
and looks at them like they are strange contraptions
while explaining with logical deductions
that we are the turning of the Not Wheel.
The endless flowing stream of singing water
that recycles the sorrows of the world
to refresh our population with children
makes the wheel turn around like the bright sun
that swirls waves of light which change the old world
so we are all reborn from the Not Wheel.
The old poet with silver hair grins wildly
and tells me how he once asked his old father
to explain the mysteries of our strange world
by pointing to the ever-turning wheel
that crowns unknown people famous a while
then grinds them forgotten with the Not Wheel.
I think I can explain why the world turns
but every word I speak turns backward some way
beyond the crumbling walls of paradise
where trees still grow from aching heart of hope
indifferent whether people eat or not
since we all will fall under the Not Wheel.
Gesturing for me to listen to the wheel,
the silver-haired poet translates weird silence
as voices of people who hide the truth
from themselves that their world will always change,
transformed by the strange motion of the river
which calculates the tune of the Not Wheel.
About to turn away from the mad poet,
I hear in the silence of the wild river
eternal song of seven billion people
all singing at once on our turning sphere
that spirals nowhere through infinity
yet harmonizes truth of the Not Wheel.
Each time I sit in silence by the river
the voices of nameless strangers express
timeless songs of aching despair in words
that flow through the pulsing wheel of my heart
to explain the secret of the White Whole
that flares forth from First Flash of the Not Wheel.
© Surazeus
2018 08 02
While searching through the ruins of the world
I find the old poet with silver hair
by the mill-pond at the end of the garden
who slouches listening to the ancient wheel
revolving in the stream of singing water,
then asks me if I can see the Not Wheel.
I try to tell him I can see the wheel
but he insists there is no turning wheel
then laughs and takes his hands out of his pockets
and looks at them like they are strange contraptions
while explaining with logical deductions
that we are the turning of the Not Wheel.
The endless flowing stream of singing water
that recycles the sorrows of the world
to refresh our population with children
makes the wheel turn around like the bright sun
that swirls waves of light which change the old world
so we are all reborn from the Not Wheel.
The old poet with silver hair grins wildly
and tells me how he once asked his old father
to explain the mysteries of our strange world
by pointing to the ever-turning wheel
that crowns unknown people famous a while
then grinds them forgotten with the Not Wheel.
I think I can explain why the world turns
but every word I speak turns backward some way
beyond the crumbling walls of paradise
where trees still grow from aching heart of hope
indifferent whether people eat or not
since we all will fall under the Not Wheel.
Gesturing for me to listen to the wheel,
the silver-haired poet translates weird silence
as voices of people who hide the truth
from themselves that their world will always change,
transformed by the strange motion of the river
which calculates the tune of the Not Wheel.
About to turn away from the mad poet,
I hear in the silence of the wild river
eternal song of seven billion people
all singing at once on our turning sphere
that spirals nowhere through infinity
yet harmonizes truth of the Not Wheel.
Each time I sit in silence by the river
the voices of nameless strangers express
timeless songs of aching despair in words
that flow through the pulsing wheel of my heart
to explain the secret of the White Whole
that flares forth from First Flash of the Not Wheel.
I was inspired to write this poem "Truth of the Not Wheel" after reading "On the Subject of Poetry" by W.S. Merwin that was published in the August 1952 Issue of Poetry Magazine.
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