The Poet Who Died

"The Uncertainty of the Poet - Giorgio de Chirico"

“There’s a manner in which a man must strife, 

through his present state and eventual life

Attack, arrest and endless ache,
how much, truly, can a man take?

There’s a constant war ‘tween his heart and mind,
and ‘midst he stands both deaf and blind

There’s a manner in which a man must die,
under that bridge, or ‘neath that sky…”

The boy poet said to his niggardly father.

“My mind is not at peace boy!” the father said, “I’ve got myself scads of work to do boy!”, “go read to your bedridden mother boy!”, “can that scanty prose of yours fetch me some gold, boy?”

A few years passed, a few moons turned…
The poet lived, unscathed, unburned…

“There’s manner in which a man must live,
an ordeal of grueling take and give

A blighted frame draped in rime,
ruined by scorn and wretched time

There’s a constant war ‘tween his needs and wants,
his master howls and his gelding taunts

There’s a manner in which a man must die,
atop a saddle, or under a sty…”

The young poet said to his ailing mother.

“What did you say there lad?” the mother said, “Did you pray to the Lord for me lad!”, “Oh Give me to the Lord, lad!”, “Kill me lad! Kill me! End my agony lad!”

A few seasons passed, a few mountains aged…

The poet lived, unbent, uncaged…

“There’s manner in which a man must love,
a wreath of daisy and white foxglove

A dainty face with a faithful smile
buried ‘neath is qualm and guile

There’s a constant war ‘tween his love and lust,
a bed of nails in a smog of dust

There’s a manner in which a man must die,
aloof from his lover, or mortally nigh…”

The adult poet said to his lover.

“Sing songs of amour, my love!” the lover said, “Prose on my beauty, my love!”, “Tell me how much you yearn for me, my love!”, “Tell the world how ravishing I am, my love!”

A few springs dried, a few autumns wept…
The poet lived, though old yet adept…

“There’s a manner in which a man must weep,
when under a cairn before the endless sleep

An olden malady confounds his thoughts,
fight till death or yield to naught

There’s a constant war ‘tween his life and death
to finish that song with one last breath

There’s a manner in which a man must die,
with a gleeful smile, or a bleeding sigh”

The old poet said to himself.

“This casket I have built” he said, “This epitaph I have written”, “This tombstone I have chiseled”, “This funeral wreath I have sewn”

The lights went somber. The curtains dropped. Tears were shed. 

The poet closed his eyes… 

and his face suggested a demeanor…

an expression… an emotion…

The winters have frozen, the sun has died…
was that a smile? Or a bleeding sigh?