DEMON AND THE POET
(Three Voices in Four Parts)
He is haunted by a demon, a demon against which
he feels powerless, because in its first manifestation
it has not face, no name, nothing; and the words, the
poems he makes, are a kind of . . . exorcism of this demon[.]
T. S. Eliot The Three Demons
i
Bits of life are smeared
on the walls of their pages.
But nothing appeases.
They are haunted by a demon, lured
by voices of desire, whispers
in the night, sounds, shadows,
echoes demanding more and more
and more, bending nerves
a snap nearer.
ii
Sappho, hearing the cries echoing from
the rocks, flung her life into the tide.
Poe lost his way chasing the black bird
whistling in the dark. Crane plunged
his final obsession into the Gulf.
Thomas tolled until his voice cracked.
Sylvia sprawled in the darkness leaving others
to ponder the rage. Hearing voices on the road,
Jarrell slipped and couldn’t make it
to the other side.. Sexton roamed
the moonlight until the wind left
her breath. Berryman cast his tongue into
the river leaving only the sound of his shadow.
iii
There is a tide where once seized
by the current, there is no anchor
only the rushing down, down,
down the raging torrent until
finally you drop.
They were at that current
which drags down to the depths.
iv
I am the ravisher of the rose,
the termite of the night that gnaws
into the fragile sap of the poet's skull,
the Demon of More that grins
at the silver madness in the poet’s eyes.
I am the poet's possessed ear beckoning
from the cliffs of Lesbos to the Mexikan Gulf
from the flats of London to the Lorelei
where heads crack against the rocks
and spray their echoes across the Rhine.
poetryrepairs #215: 15.07:082
PETER KROK
"OUT . . ."
(dedicated to Reetika Vazirani)
Like dust
The dark falls.
A gypsy moth pangs
Against the light fixture.
The Black Label sweats
On the coffee table.
She leans
At the edge
Locked in
Her own silence.
Tomorrow
Lies so far.
The hurt cuts
The hours
And
Her life.
poetryrepairs #215: 15.07:082
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appeared in LIPS [FALL 2006]
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