November 18, 2011
Call me Aquarius
unlike Ishmael
set to sea
by soul’s November
damp and drizzle
cold November
grim about the mouth
November
chased into the arms of Ahab
ever striving,
ever driving
raging to the fading light
in endless existential angst
aspiring to redeeming greatness
spurning fear and hope alike
embracing Übermensch inside
which elevates
contentious ways
defines the dark
in dismal days
descends again
the well of cold
which holds the dread
November soul
well goodness gracious that
November, bless its existential
heart, so Sturm und Drang, so
not my drama. Mine the mellow
Southern season mixing mild
with bracing days, when
woodlands open up and welcome
winter’s heart of tan and brown.
There’s peace in piercing shafts
of sunlight slowly warming
forest
floor where solemn anoles fade
in silence, green to tan in
golden
sun, a grace in shy suburban
does
when flushed from front yard
flower gardens, gracile statues
snapped to life and soaring lightly
merge with early evening shadows
cast by rising Hunter’s Moon.
November’s second soul is sweetness
wrapped in dwindling light and
life,
a treasure passed unrecognized
by those who set themselves
to sea
immersed
and haunted
ever onward
driven, seeking
never finding
ever scanning
endless oceans
screaming
squid-breath
over
here, ya
wanna’nother
piece
a’ me?
Though some still think to call
it glory – deeply woven hero
story – manning up is in our
guts,
in coded genes we cannot break,
but fallen human spirit grows
new harmonies will soon take
hold
November’s grace will seep
inside
and ground the mind of greatness
yet.
So never mind
the date precisely
when my fate shall
breach beside me,
when the white whale
comes for me, I’ll draw
upon that second soul
to harness what I have
in store to bless the
beast
that looms before me,
bless the beast that
lurks
inside, to look with
love
on ice cold eyes, to look
my last on open skies,
to fill my lungs with
light
and dive.
Bob,
ReplyDeleteThis is a remarkable poem -- the stanzas move through their meaning with the intent below the surface, like waves in an ocean. You capture the huge Melville-like ambivalence and shifting of perspective that (dare I can it) growing older can provide. Who doesn't have a goal, a white whale, that they chase for a lifetime? I especially like the direct address: "over here, squid-breath ..." And, of course, ultimately, life ends as it always does, with the capture of the beast we've unwittingly always sought. Congratulations, well done, and a good evocation of this melancholy month.