flem
|
|
Candledark
| 
Jun 5 06:37 UTC 1999 |
I'm not this prolific, really. I've been having this neat period of
strong inspiration and time to work things out, the end result of which
is that I've produced more (and arguably better) poetry in the past few
days than in the rest of my life. Inspiration sometimes sucks, though;
someone pointed out earlier in this conference that some of the greatest
works of art are produced out of the deepest pain. Today my cat died,
my beautiful Phil. This, combined with the fact that I've been reading
the poetry of Swinburne (which, while incredibly lyrical and beautiful,
is completely morbid; he talks about death incessantly) led to the
following poem. It definitely needs work, but this will qualify as a
first draft, and has its shining moments, I think.
This one's for you, Phil.
Candledark
When candles die, The tragedy is not
The tenrils of the fragrant smoke they leave,
Nor darkness where their cozy glow once shone.
For smoke can bear away my prayers to God
And darkness is no punishment, for one
Who longs for solitude, to cry alone.
No, the tragedy of sudden candledark
Is loneliness, where once the cherished flame
bequeathed to me its tiny, selfless warmth
As though it understood my voiceless groan.
No, when days die, and darkness covers all
There is no loss. Light comes again, and soon:
Against it, Night cannot but fail ere long.
I know this, yet when sunset's fire is gone
And Night's cold essence wraps me roundabout,
And sleep's oblivion is not yet come,
My solace, comforter, my tiny dawn,
My candle flame keeps company with me.
Together, vigil seems less burdensome,
and Night becomes a cloak to keep us warm.
Eventually, all candles gutter, all men die.
All wicks grow short, all wax runs cold and dull,
All muscles freeze, all kindly thoughts are stilled.
All loves grow feeble, all lights fail in time;
The sun, that candle of the Lord's first Night,
It too will burn out when its fuel is gone.
Oh, what is Man, that knowledge of his fate
Is granted him? What candle lights the way
Past death; is there another dawn of life?
What lessons can we learn, when candles die?
Would it be better not to know our doom?
The candle, pure and innocent, it lives
Its short, sweet life in ignorance of death;
Could we not live as sweetly if we could
But lose this gruesome knowledge that we know?
Achilles once was given such a choice,
Between a long and comfortable life
And glory, fire, sacrifice, and death.
His choice defaulted; anger for a friend
Made his decision for him, shaped his end.
And our ends too are shaped in such a way.
All people walk their ways in chosen paths
And know the consequences of their deeds.
The vengeance of Achilles was his choice;
Our choices more mundane, are just as proud.
Our knowledge is more dear to us than life.
If candles knew their fate, but burned on still,
How much more noble would their effort be!
When Death stops for me, my comfort thus will go:
Each action in my life was made by choice.
|