Poem: The Prophesy


I see you as my wife;

Why, then, are you stood at the kitchen window

Looking so forlornly?

Or is it a reverie my prophecy has interrupted –

Some jealous memories of when we were kings;

Bardic principalities, roaming the mountains,

To seek the inspiration that so inflamed us?

In that lonely mountain, where e’en Eagles dare,

The jagged peaks saluted us,

And the nectar of birdsong, fills

The unhoneyed moments, where sorrow might

Better intervene –

But you are not in the mountains, now;

Now – you look out into a garden

Where sparrows number by their thousands,

To discuss the vagaries of politics,

And the lieutenancy of a worm’s command;

And when they take off

It is like an earthquake in the dead letter department

Where my prophecies are sure to appear

But, perhaps this is not our home;

Perhaps you are just a guest, a dreaming visitant,

Seeking out company, to mourn the hours

While I, your desolate husband,

Am tossed upon a Turneresque sea;

A salad of limbs, caught in the mist,

Of some ecstatic reverie –

But I never could spell ‘Ecstasy’

Though I know you used to take it

By the dozen – perhaps you could

Tell me bedtime stories

Of battleships and sea monsters;

Of maniacal men in roofless bars;

Of your first impressions of me

As I descended from space

Hoping against hope

Your heart to purchase

Oh, how the years will agonize us!

How the years will toil us, spoil us,

Moil us and foil us; bear us,

And tear us; undress us, and wear us –

How those savage years will

Uplift us, and drift us, desecrate us,

And consecrate us!

And upon that consecration

We will turn our backs on one another:

Not out of spite –

But so that our spines might interlink

And become the Caduceus

Mercury must always hold in his hand –

Ah, Samarkand! Ah Siberia!

Oh, Juliet and Tiberius!

Is it a museum

Or a mausoleum?

Is it heartbreak;

Or Heart-unbound?

On a tyrannous sea,

Captain Ahab will be the registrar,

Before whom our fated souls are married

And against the cliffs –

Time’s inked-pages stiff –

Harpoons will be wended into

Those self-same spines

Inspiring us on a trajectory

Whose fatalistic parabola

Will not be ours to choose –

Ah, to win and lose!

To negate, consecrate, or

Accept too late –

Seeing across time, thus

Is it a wonder you look so forlornly

Out our prophesied kitchen window?

But I’ve an appointment with Joshua Reynolds –

And I’ve asked him to paint

Your unglazed future,

So my heart-pinned auguries

Have some place

To rest –

Best get them off my chest

Than with a chest, a universe be filled;

So on these pages,

I took out a quill,

And let my heart’s blood be spilled




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