In Choir Of Poets

In Choir Of Poets
© Surazeus
2018 12 06

In choir of poets who sing across the land
my notes twang against their sweet harmony
to conjure concepts contrary to their clues,
though we all sing together on one theme
about the private person seeking truth
as they mumble weird thoughts under their breath.

While wandering in the city between worlds,
I find John Berryman down on his knees
beneath brass statue of Confederate general
as he spray-paints Tyrant across the name,
then flees into grim darkness when police
hunt for rebels against authority.

While standing on lush shore of the Charles River
to stare at wood shack where Anne Bradstreet lived,
I find Robert Lowell carving white whale
and serving roasted steaks to nameless ghosts,
then he drives blue Buick west to Oregon
where he puts white snake on my writing desk.

While studying famous paintings of dead kings
in sprawling World Museum of Fine Art,
I find John Ashbery with wicked brush
painting Hitler mustache on upper lip
of Mona Lisa who texts me on the phone,
then kings me with plastic Burger King crown.

While walking across snow-slick parking lot
at Mall of the Americas before Christmas,
I find Sylvia Plath hiding behind dumpsters
who laughs when she throws snowballs at my head,
then shrieks when I chase her into dark woods
where she transforms to Ariel at my kiss.

While shivering on the Interstate-Five bridge
as I walk to downtown Seattle at midnight,
I find Hart Crane strumming old lyre of Hermes
which tangles jangling wires between our hearts
so he snags my hands with taut puppet strings
when I compose magic spells for damned souls.

While trudging waste land in New Mexico,
I find Tom Eliot under the Red Rock
who leaps out at me as the Lizard King
and teaches me to dance with lightning strikes
that cracks the sky to drench the world in tears
so I translate song of rain in weird poems.

While strumming guitar by the empty fountain
at the old slave market in Carolopolis,
I find Ezra Pound in the lion cage
typing cantos in long pastoral on money
to explain how it represents energy,
then wraps me in its pages like mute mummy.

While searching for true way to Fairyland
in Rainbow Mountains of Arapaho,
I find Allen Ginsberg at lotus temple,
howling lament for demon-possessed minds
while meditating above Skull of God,
then shoots arrow of Cupid at my heart.

While riding carriage on the Oregon Trail
to search for faith in hills of Idaho,
I find Emily Dickinson in black gown
who touches my eyes with fingers of ice
to reveal truth shining in slant of light,
then gives me Ruby Egg of Melusine.

While crawling river of light to the cave
where shadows of Plato imitate forms,
I find Bob Dylan in apple tree grove
who shows me petals on the wet black bough
the keeps dripping blood in the pool of eyes,
then pastes jester mask on messiah face.

While walking cobblestone streets in red rain,
I find Paul Simon on Rock of Salvation
who hides behind castle walls of his heart
to translate sounds of silence into song
that echoes in the wells of human hearts,
then gives me broken guitar without strings.

While sailing fragile boat on sea of dreams,
I find Percy Shelley on rocky isle
where Alastor shows us how to seduce
beautiful sirens by encoding their words
in transcendental hymns of godless faith,
then we chase west wind to Elysium.

While climbing trail to ruined Parthenon,
I find George Byron in Temple of Athena,
grasping her poisonous snakes in each hand,
which he weaves into my two writhing arms
so I type poetry on computer screen,
then we transcribe epic songs of the Muse.

While sitting in mist-shrouded apple grove,
I find John Keats on ancient throne of Zeus
who listens to skull of Orpheus sing
while carving verses on the crystal urn
as he lifts Ophelia from stream of flowers,
then pushes me backward in cave of dreams.

While strolling vast many-footed Manhattan,
I find Walt Whitman lounging in the grass
he stuffs in corn-cob pipe to smoke the stars,
and builds cathedral from bones of mad men
where he gives apples to blind worshippers,
then directs us all in the choir of poets.

While waving bloody flag of democracy,
I find Charles Baudelaire on college campus
who joins cheerleaders of the football team
but takes them dancing on the ocean shore
where they sing naked before ghost of light,
then transforms me into the Swan of Leda.

While researching quality of stream water,
I find Ovid wearing detective coat
who investigates tales of rape and murder
to write news stories for national tabloids
about aliens, conspiracies, and monsters,
then mutates my eyes into singing serpents.

While strutting on the theater stage of power,
I find William Shakespeare wearing glass mask
to play Oberon in castle of ghosts
who flock around him as he plays the lute
and channels spirits of dead kings and queens,
then smears flower juice on my eyes so I see.

Descending from haunted groves of Parnassus,
after drinking fountain of the flying horse,
I wander dazed in strange streets of America
where people drive Chariot of Ezekiel,
then sing in tune with loud factory machines
in choir of poets on the World Wide Web.