LAMENTATIONS

by David Eide

When the question of artistry arises the poet tells the muse to fold her wings and fly, nothing will be learned today, he says to her. He sits in front o the an empty wall to contemplate whether he embodies the beauty he aspires for. The rules of artistry, he tells himself, are open and free but excruciatingly difficult. They are rules written in the matrix of conflict. But the terrible feeling comes when the poet realizes that the conversations he has with himself are not shared and have no standing in the community. He throws against the wall every form of incoherence available. Bah! To make this city silent I would kill, even, beauty!

I would will each generation with a desire to be silent!
I would will the mind to the horizon of the sun!
I would will the mind to fill the empty space between points of knowledge!
I would will the way to make things into the character of its spirit!
I would will the character of the time to dance for me as it forces its way into my heart!

And then he is ridiculed through the invisible streets by the people he knows so well. We are not in hell, he tells them. "We are in a world that can be grasped and loved from time to time. Drink deep, people; you who ridicule the best aspect of yourselves!"

He thinks: They can not follow me home and disturb my work or separate me from my dreams. They will have a better life than I but I know a better life than they will ever have. Death has taken them away into the horrible frenzy that death inspires.

He knows that from the opacity of the grand structure they have planned his execution.

"I will be part of the crowd on that day!"

They will come looking for him and find the wrong person now living in his humble place. Winding configurations will be tied through the structure of the city; mourning and celebration will take place. No machines will be allowed on the street or in the air that day.

The supreme lesson the poet learns is this: a man is truly free. The past of other nations does not press on him. He only competes against himself and is nourished by all the fresh and incomplete vitality that hums around him.

The past is represented to the poet by a series of books that he leisurely passes in and out of, stopping occasionally and allowing a scene or phrase run deep along the ribs of his soul. Great philosophers speak to him their mighty voice. "I am grounded in the freest soil on the Earth." And old poets greet him in mid-air above the daily struggle to confer a blessing only poets understand.