In Iron: or, in thoughts inspired by W. B. Yeats

(19:26:08 CST)

In Iron: or, in thoughts inspired by W. B. Yeats (the updated version)

We are forged from hot iron, Already rusting, Born dying. Cooling in infinite unending: Thrust into the muddy river, Soaking in the wrecked dawn ( The whole sky opening blue and awake Upon us, in our shells, Like so many fragile eggs below ). We rise up lattices, thin webbed Caricatures of ideals, Colorful black and white. Touch the breaking noon with the tips of our I-beams and cross-bars, struts And supports, bolts and rivets: we temples Unbelievable to miracle. Dusk into Shape under stress great pressure, forced Corners and keystones and lolling periods And great eras and pillarsy. Rain drops pool on our exterior. Catch the light, Refract it, Watch it as drips down, falls off us.

In Iron: or, in thoughts inspired by W. B. Yeats (the original)

We are forged out of hot iron, Already rusting, Born dying: Cooling in tomorrow's infinite unending. Thrust into the muddy river Of the wrecked dawn, The whole sky opening blue and awake Upon us, in our shells, Like so many fragile eggs below. We rise up in lattices, thin webs, Caricatures of ideals, Cartoon strokes and black and white. Touch the break of noon with our I-beams and cross-bars, struts And supports: we temples Unbelievable to miracle. Immalleable bits beat into Shape under great stress, forced into Corners and keystones and lolling periods And great eras and pillars Of society. Rain drops pool on our exterior. Catch the light... Refract it, Watch it as drips down, falls off us. Begin to hate it. Realize that there, in the puddle about us, That drop is all there is, That drop and millions like it. Billions. Climbing up, then, In torrents and anger, Reaching towards the sun before this Babylonian edifice ceases to suffice: Daring the gods' wraths because if we do this, If we can loose this single, universal, all known Unending and unifying scream, The syllable upon which we breathe: What will be denied us? Come, Let us make ourselves in our image. Past the zenith, it flows, down its long Fall, its singular, pointless constellation. Never what we intended, Never enough to satisfy. Frustrated by our own sense of gravity, By this sense of pointless revolution. Our own sense of Inevitability. Our demise. Our Out of tune just a nonce, Never reconciled. Winding down as we become more and smaller, Longer and yet folding like Origami wires, Back into ourselves. We start to fall, in time, a rhythm's beat ; A heart caught stuttering To the tune of a forgotten earworm Of bygone silences. First one and then another, our burning Soul shakes us off, leaves us behind, Calls us pathetic tired men, and We do not follow. It was never in us To begin with. We waste into cold iron, Already scrap-heaped and done: Awaiting recycle laying Along the old dreams and things And older ways. Another note and verse in some other moment, Drying off in the placid evening air. The whole sky closes dark and asleep From us, in our shells, Like so many fragile eggs below.

Si Vales, Valeo

file under (Poetry)

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