My Chair Is The Poem
© Surazeus
2019 02 18
My chair walks alone on the desert road,
trotting like a wolf in the swirling dust,
back straight in the air like its bushy tail,
then pauses and pricks up its pointy ears.
My chair leaps up stairs of the pyramid,
galloping swift as wind from the wild sea,
and moves lithely through crowd of worshippers
in time for Ishtar to sit on its faith.
My chair opens the front door of my house
and, after getting a drink of cold water,
sits by the warm hearth and purrs like a cat,
waiting for me to arrive home from work.
My chair sits in the boat on the still lake
and casts fishing line into sparkling depths,
then whistles random melody of patience
while watching sunlight flicker on the water.
My chair prances like a lamb on lush hill,
chasing butterflies among daffodils,
then lies down with the lion by the lake
to watch twelve children laughing as they swim.
My chair grows from small seed into tall tree
which I chop down with the sharp-bladed axe,
then saw into planks and four rounded legs,
and assemble with nails I hammer straight.
My chair sits by the window all night long
and watches the moon shine among tall trees
then carves secret runes on the bedroom wall
to calculate physical laws of weight.
My chair waltzes with the door in stone temple,
twirling together to violin tunes
that spiral rainbow threads of ecstasy
weaving the moon into its aching heart.
My chair of gold and gems in castle court
decrees new laws for mankind to obey
that enforce grand rules of equality
so nations live through liberty of trust.
My chair trots regally down avenue
like horse to lead parade of warriors
who celebrate our victory in world war,
defending humankind from tyranny.
My chair holds video camera with firm hands
to film dramatic scene of noble action
while directing the historical movie
that celebrates fierce tragic characters.
My chair is the poem that knows your true name
and paints clear vision of your secret soul
revealed by mask of the many-face god
you wear on your quest for enlightenment.
© Surazeus
2019 02 18
My chair walks alone on the desert road,
trotting like a wolf in the swirling dust,
back straight in the air like its bushy tail,
then pauses and pricks up its pointy ears.
My chair leaps up stairs of the pyramid,
galloping swift as wind from the wild sea,
and moves lithely through crowd of worshippers
in time for Ishtar to sit on its faith.
My chair opens the front door of my house
and, after getting a drink of cold water,
sits by the warm hearth and purrs like a cat,
waiting for me to arrive home from work.
My chair sits in the boat on the still lake
and casts fishing line into sparkling depths,
then whistles random melody of patience
while watching sunlight flicker on the water.
My chair prances like a lamb on lush hill,
chasing butterflies among daffodils,
then lies down with the lion by the lake
to watch twelve children laughing as they swim.
My chair grows from small seed into tall tree
which I chop down with the sharp-bladed axe,
then saw into planks and four rounded legs,
and assemble with nails I hammer straight.
My chair sits by the window all night long
and watches the moon shine among tall trees
then carves secret runes on the bedroom wall
to calculate physical laws of weight.
My chair waltzes with the door in stone temple,
twirling together to violin tunes
that spiral rainbow threads of ecstasy
weaving the moon into its aching heart.
My chair of gold and gems in castle court
decrees new laws for mankind to obey
that enforce grand rules of equality
so nations live through liberty of trust.
My chair trots regally down avenue
like horse to lead parade of warriors
who celebrate our victory in world war,
defending humankind from tyranny.
My chair holds video camera with firm hands
to film dramatic scene of noble action
while directing the historical movie
that celebrates fierce tragic characters.
My chair is the poem that knows your true name
and paints clear vision of your secret soul
revealed by mask of the many-face god
you wear on your quest for enlightenment.
This poem was inspired by the following paragraph in this story about the poet Charles Bernstein.
ReplyDeleteBeloved Penn prof. Charles Bernstein, winner of highest award in poetry, set to retire
https://www.thedp.com/article/2019/02/charles-bernstein-penn-english-upenn-poet-professor-bollingen-prize-retire
2018 College graduate Amanda Silberling said she credits Bernstein with helping her "develop the way that I see poetry and art."
Silberling recalled a favorite moment with Bernstein, when she proposed to him that anything could be a poem.
“He was like, ‘Really, what about this chair?’ and just picks up a chair and asked me if I thought it was a poem. Then I had to defend it, and we had this whole conversation about it," Silberling said.