Penetralium Of Mystery
© Surazeus
2018 11 10
Staring out the window at busy street
where cars glide flashing past rows of large stores,
the wild-haired man at the library desk
closes old book of poems by Robert Lowell
to understand the message trees convey
when they sway nonchalantly in orange wind.
The trees are not hotly chalant for truth
any more than I am when I read poems
that conjure sense of some long-ago time
through description of vibrant urban scenes
in distant fairyland of Massachusetts
where my ancestors built first colonies.
No piles of words, heaped in observant poems,
could capture the whole spirit of the times
in comprehensive puzzle of strange clues
with adequate expression to convey
complete enough vision of human nature
to record sheen of spiritual despair.
The complex visions in the throbbing brains
of so many dead people stew in books
of bubbling words to stink the air with thoughts
of stale forgotten memories brewed by hope
for some more perfect paradise of peace
than any politicians could create.
Sensations of each decade glow concealed
in images of objects we perceived,
despair and hope in vehicles and towers
from moments flashed unchanged in photographs
which show in spectrum of chemical colors
emotion-flavored memories we archive.
That timeless sunlight glow on surfaces
of buildings and streets conveys in sharp tinge
general sense of the cultural atmosphere
dramatized through lives of celebrities
who eat madness of our aching ennui
through rank catharsis of obscene rebirth.
Prophetic poets of long-gone decades
declared outrageous oracles in code
to curse warmongers building new empire
on fractured skulls of muted individuals
but now their spells supine in printed books
lie rotting in coffins of silenced fact.
Eerie beauty of mist on river shore
in twilight hour of half-remembered scenes
with family gathered in bright living rooms
conceals numb anguish of imbalanced love
where ghost of Robert Lowell glows from light
of candles flickering by the Christmas tree.
The flashing ghost of memory I pursue
down sunless caverns measureless to man
to catch gleam of verisimilitude
in that sacred penetralium of mystery
where only loyal acolytes may tread
who dare accept uncertainty of doubt.
Yet nothing more than beauty of the vision
can I ever find behind mask of truth
which people wear to hide their aching lust
so angry tyrant on hard throne of gold
will never suspect treason of their rage
for wanting independence of free will.
Where statues of dead gods return my smile
I play the fugitive from tyranny
that overwhelms our republic with fear
when people clinging to their plot of land
howl at immigrants from wars they had caused
who sit with Jonah at the desert wall.
Where Thomas Wyatt hides from wrath of Henry
John Keats lounges among laced apple trees
and Allen Ginsberg chants alchemic spells,
so I can feel at peace in company
of mad prophets exiled from holy court
where God presides over obedient angels.
God is Idea of political authority
which acts as real force in human society,
where groups of people always obey leader
who appoints each person their role to play
and manages projects to create goods
so the group protects every individual.
Some leaders love the people whom they serve,
Idea of the selfless leader embodied
by Jesus who loves each soul of the tribe,
and some leaders hate the people they own,
Idea of the selfish leader embodied
by Satan who hates each soul of the tribe.
Tyrants exploit people as property,
abusing them to satisfy their lust,
so people wear masks to conceal their rage
which distorts magic of creative love
into obscurus that mangles the soul,
and corrupts security to blind fear.
Whether saviors or tyrants, human gods
come and go in revolution of power,
rising and falling on swift wheel of fortune,
but our friendship lasts beyond changing fate,
so we walk together along the river,
sharing poems we write about memories.
© Surazeus
2018 11 10
Staring out the window at busy street
where cars glide flashing past rows of large stores,
the wild-haired man at the library desk
closes old book of poems by Robert Lowell
to understand the message trees convey
when they sway nonchalantly in orange wind.
The trees are not hotly chalant for truth
any more than I am when I read poems
that conjure sense of some long-ago time
through description of vibrant urban scenes
in distant fairyland of Massachusetts
where my ancestors built first colonies.
No piles of words, heaped in observant poems,
could capture the whole spirit of the times
in comprehensive puzzle of strange clues
with adequate expression to convey
complete enough vision of human nature
to record sheen of spiritual despair.
The complex visions in the throbbing brains
of so many dead people stew in books
of bubbling words to stink the air with thoughts
of stale forgotten memories brewed by hope
for some more perfect paradise of peace
than any politicians could create.
Sensations of each decade glow concealed
in images of objects we perceived,
despair and hope in vehicles and towers
from moments flashed unchanged in photographs
which show in spectrum of chemical colors
emotion-flavored memories we archive.
That timeless sunlight glow on surfaces
of buildings and streets conveys in sharp tinge
general sense of the cultural atmosphere
dramatized through lives of celebrities
who eat madness of our aching ennui
through rank catharsis of obscene rebirth.
Prophetic poets of long-gone decades
declared outrageous oracles in code
to curse warmongers building new empire
on fractured skulls of muted individuals
but now their spells supine in printed books
lie rotting in coffins of silenced fact.
Eerie beauty of mist on river shore
in twilight hour of half-remembered scenes
with family gathered in bright living rooms
conceals numb anguish of imbalanced love
where ghost of Robert Lowell glows from light
of candles flickering by the Christmas tree.
The flashing ghost of memory I pursue
down sunless caverns measureless to man
to catch gleam of verisimilitude
in that sacred penetralium of mystery
where only loyal acolytes may tread
who dare accept uncertainty of doubt.
Yet nothing more than beauty of the vision
can I ever find behind mask of truth
which people wear to hide their aching lust
so angry tyrant on hard throne of gold
will never suspect treason of their rage
for wanting independence of free will.
Where statues of dead gods return my smile
I play the fugitive from tyranny
that overwhelms our republic with fear
when people clinging to their plot of land
howl at immigrants from wars they had caused
who sit with Jonah at the desert wall.
Where Thomas Wyatt hides from wrath of Henry
John Keats lounges among laced apple trees
and Allen Ginsberg chants alchemic spells,
so I can feel at peace in company
of mad prophets exiled from holy court
where God presides over obedient angels.
God is Idea of political authority
which acts as real force in human society,
where groups of people always obey leader
who appoints each person their role to play
and manages projects to create goods
so the group protects every individual.
Some leaders love the people whom they serve,
Idea of the selfless leader embodied
by Jesus who loves each soul of the tribe,
and some leaders hate the people they own,
Idea of the selfish leader embodied
by Satan who hates each soul of the tribe.
Tyrants exploit people as property,
abusing them to satisfy their lust,
so people wear masks to conceal their rage
which distorts magic of creative love
into obscurus that mangles the soul,
and corrupts security to blind fear.
Whether saviors or tyrants, human gods
come and go in revolution of power,
rising and falling on swift wheel of fortune,
but our friendship lasts beyond changing fate,
so we walk together along the river,
sharing poems we write about memories.
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