Franceski's Writings
It is the first act. The primal thrust and scream.
Which is why the newborn's immediate deed and concern
Is to cry out. To release with great violence from
Its tiny throat exploding with fire and caked blood,
A name to walk upon the earth.
It is the naming of paradisal beasts, the first duty
Of man upon rising from the dirt and God's holy spittle.
But I did not know this at first. Not until the poem
Called from the desert and the wilderness. Not until
My heart was threaded into the needle's eye. Until
It was broken and woven by a loom of thorns and branches,
Rocks, bile and seawater.
We poets of course, like everyone else, refuse to suffer
Legitimately and abhor duty. And so, we try to shut it
Tightly in the darkness; hoping to smother it between
A book's pages. We bribe it with gold from contests.
We feed and pamper it in workshops. We part its hair and
Starch its collar and straighten its tie.
We make it sweet-smelling and presentable amid all the
Lifeless marble, in the spotless halls of the academe.
We trade it for love, for sex, for fame, for respectability,
For meaning and ideology.
And so we have fooled everyone.
Ourselves and other poets. The insane. The idiots.
The politically correct. The politicians and moneybags.
The leftist and revolutionaries. The critics. The censors.
The feminists. The society matrons. The priests.
The teachers of literature. The masculinists.
The workshop fellows who think it can be taught. The gays.
Our wives and our husbands and our lovers beside them.
Our parents. Our children. The readers who fail us in the end.
We forget conveniently, that it might be grasped only by spirit,
By the energy of litany. That it can be merely:
The fire of God. The cats screwing on the roof.
The lonely sperm. The singing worm. A gathering
Of ghosts, monks, actors and stern disciples.
Red sex. White murder.
We wish to believe this pretense, for safety's sake:
That poetry is not the only thing that matters.
I am not a poet. This is not a poem.
The words in writing is strongest when life gets bitter...
So when down, be sure to have a pen nearby...
You'll never know how good you can speak in silence.
My Poems:
My Essay:
My Favorite Writer & Poet: Edgar Allan Poe
[HoMe] [THe LaDY BeHiND][CiRCLe oF FRieNDS] [LiFe oF a PRoFeSSioNaL BuM] [eNDLeSS YaKiTY]
