Carry

by Poetry

The landscape spread before us & danced, twisted into
such beauty;
                        it yearned to be a poem –
it wanted to travel with me,
& in me,
& witness for itself,
its own beauties when
compared to the streets
dead-ends, dark houses & stagnant
cathedrals still clinging to my spine;
the keenness of it all, the promiscuity of the world
turned me off, then & there –

 – I have never loved
                                     those whose bodies
                                     are naturally the bodies of muses,
                                     as I have never loved a mountain
                                     for its size, or an ocean,
                                                                                 for its endlessness –

– I have never truly loved
a natural muse, & those who struggle
and fight and work to make their bodies
the bodies of muses
are charlatans;
                           like the rest of us.
                                                            We misunderstand the
meaning of muses & we’re all dreaming
of angels.

I envy the landscape poets, like I envy the artists who shudder to capture a scene in their art. I have never been able to capture a truly beautiful landscape; they are beyond me, too large for one weak man’s imitation. Had I a full workshop, with a dozens poets working on some great masterpiece, I might be able to present one moment of the world; one scene in perfect stillness or alive with the thunderous joy of simply being alive, with eyes stretched out to see the beauty of light on dark scenes.

Every landscape I have seen now stands as a testament to my failures – like the great game hunters, I assume the living mock me for running out of bullets and ink so early in the day. No heads of trees, or bodies of rivers stand in my hall as a testament to my skill as a tracker, or my precision with a rifle. I envy the landscape poets, who can see so clearly and so intimately over such a large scale when I, inevitably, fail and fail and fail again.

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poetry
modern poetry
Carey Poet

Independence

gentle shores teasing infinity are
beautiful but they are not you
I think some part of you
resents that the idea
that I can unearth beauty
independently