In youths youngest hour comes the dawn, and we whirl around at the sky, and being young and in love with blue, tulips, and clouds we fall not knowing that one day the sun would forever go down, and the children get up and dance and sing in the streets, London Bridge is Falling Down and we whirl around in wondrous glee.
A poem I wrote while thinking about the lost statue, “The Poet at the Gates of Hell,” now known for just it’s center portion, The Thinker.
As I sit thinking of Rodin’s great statue, The Poet At The Gates Of Hell and bards since past in battle with follied madness—in length and breadth at their obligations, I too sing fortissimo at the soldiers advance, at drums beating their muse in the fields of the dead: the clomping boots mid-march to claim new land, the menacing certainty of blood spilled, the dangers hidden in the advancement.
Revolution most grand I chant, vive la révolution, vive l’esprit de l’homme!
Underneath the concrete and glass skyscrapers weight I’m certain that spirit and advancement endure, gathering light at its edges as if perfume suppressed, supine along the floor waiting for some fortuitous windfall, to turn silver droplets from Katy Perri’s Plastic bags—
The restless mist that goes out at evening and plasters itself—to the Iphone’s glow at parks and while glued in theater seats, the mist that pins itself to the floor or gives its momentum up to hissed dogma underneath the concrete and glass skyscrapers weight.