Poem of the Day, April 30: "Thus, Exeunt"

BLOT: (30 Apr 2016 - 02:31:45 PM)

Poem of the Day, April 30: "Thus, Exeunt"

Without comment, the final 10-minute-poem of the day for now...

"Thus, Exeunt"

Eyes must be more than the physical act of seeing
If the dead have them closed, rotting and forgotten
In graves full of names of dates and faces they rarely
Wore while living, landscapes of darkness against
Coffin lids, and eyes must be more than windows
To the soul if the living have them, rushing screaming,
Thrust out into the world full of fleeing confusions,
Landscapes of other people and minor schemes
Against day to day priorities and buildings roads
Glass cars thorns trees stones clouds sky stars

Poetry must be more than the physical act of speaking
Words with lips and teeth and meaning if the dead
Can be remembered for their poetry after breathing
Ceases and naught but good words are spoke of them,
Echoes of lives understood largely through implication,
And poetry must be more than pretty words in rhyme
If the living can bungle them so well, poor choices
And pastoral pastiches of sentimental claptrap
Shared with strangers with the cliche of common ground,
Ill defined tempos and rhythms full of saccharine
Humanity, burning in the hearts that forget

And silence must be more than the physical act of holding
If the dead do it so effortlessly, without trying.
Silence must be more than that simply not living if a
Billion people are silent at any given time, crowds of clowns
With mouths held tight and dry and behind those faces
It is so loud, so very loud, and all failures of expression

So goodbye, Neruda
So goodbye, Hulme
So goodbye, Ginsberg
So goodbye, Blake
So goodbye, Bukowski
So goodbye, Dick
So goodnight, Pound
So goodnight, Joyce
So goodnight, Toole
So spokoynoy nochi, Dostoevsky
So bon nuit, James
[and so long, you other James, the ghostly one]
So long, Aickman
So goodbye, Lovecraft
So goodbye, Vonnegut
So goodbye, Dickinson
So goodbye, Hardy
So good try, Topaz
So much, so sorry, so hard to know what else
Could have had such a so much nothing
So goodbye, thought
So goodbye, sound
So goodbye, sight
So goodbye, ground
So goodbye, landscapes
So goodbye, crowd
And good luck, me

So goodnight to thirty-eight years and we are all just
Dead things living in the past of ourselves, memories
Of a grave that has yet to be dug and all
Of our poetry is just this moment that may be spoken
Into the silence of eyes some time down the road
Or maybe find quiet in the act of being lost beside
The great river, over rocks and rapids it goes
And nothing we can do will make better of it

Thus, exeunt
Thus, exeunt
An ending is implied in the beginning