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Thursday, August 26, 2010

Poem to the Eagle Writer




To the Eagle Writer, who calls to me,
To help me sing this song,
Her name letters with mine.
A, C, E, G, H, I, J, K, L, J, M, N, O, P, R, S, T, W

I praise her to the Nine who can still all that is,
Make singing Ohm the heat o' their song.
Take her into their heart,
teach her arts Erato, Calliope, Terpsichore
Since Orphe was torn in two, repair them.
Homer the Greek sang o' them,
the Great Muses who inspire all Creation.

What I once was
She has , what we keep, she will get
all o' it – I’ll hemorrhage pools, pink, orange, now green, still there is no menace
or loss – her grace has come, now it goes
no harm – thinking is gone – she has that, which comes
no waste – I remark, "what a sop, what a ship wreck" . . .  she helps me sing this pathetic song.

She starts, shoots 'till fear is all no more.
A killer Eros, whose sharp arrows pierce the skin.
I'll make peace, or she will take with power the peace she knows she has.
Her white eagle claws tear open the chest.

All the Artists, palm her,
The Poet hearts shake in pits.
She calls the capital, mortgages all creation.
The Creation we owe to her.
Those who steal what is hers,
Egos, 'till she takes them all,
Then emptiness is theirs.

All the poets,
their poems,
in all meters,
thirst to her

all the minstrels
those who minister
thirst to her

all the writers
their writings
their thinking reasons
all gone to her.
(she can rip their pages, cease their reason.)

all the philosophers
their philosophizing philosophies
she spares them not.

all the painters
all their paintings
are taken to m_se_ms.

all the singers, all the operas
all their songs
she can start or stop
energetic or romantic
historic or erotic

All, not one, not one spit less than all,
All is gone to her,
All that is in creation, will go.

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