"For poetry makes nothing happen"
~ W. H. Auden
Forged in a furnace, my experience
ordains me to confer wisdom in words;
rush not to write in verse, for poetry
portrays people full of resilience;
ordinary people, bent out of shape
emerge from their cocoons with tattered wings,
try to fly and fall like the waxwing slain;
revive poor Icarus, unlike the bard's
yawp, I cannot howl like wolves, my paltry
mouth sees the moon speechless. I have been shown
a reflection of the moon on a ship,
keel evenly balanced, where the moon winks
enigmatically at placid water;
silently, I stood on deck, a waiter
no one needed for the moment. I stood
on deck looking down at the placid sea;
try replicating this moment, your mind
holds onto the image, like an old, staid,
impeccable fool, I stood there in hope,
not to see the moon wink, but simply watch,
granted an audience with the twin moons;
how I became attached in thought and deed
as the years passed. One night, I sat to mend
pants at the hem, in my cabin. Our rooms
paid me no attention, I heard some hype
emerge above from my porthole. Bewitched
not by the noise but by the calm outside.
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