07-23-2011, 10:57 AM
Revision:
I cannot stomach comradeship,
the masculinity you loved, as soldiers sleep by lakes
and woo, women sew the meadow's store,
and everyone is ripe with joy, stranger holding
kind stranger, Indians and whites at peace;
what is this strange utopia, this place we tell children about
to placate them each night?
this optimism of the blind denies the tombs,
the leaves which fall on great stone beds
and wither in the summer light. when you explore
this transaction, this last exchange, immortal fields
of your bright world have more subtance,
feel like home. by acknowledging the moon
you justify the sun. I wish you'd done so more often.
***
Original:
flashes of brilliance bestow
the verses by this Yankee dear
with something nearing false legend,
a tale we believe in youth
but grow to distrust as we age.
tomb leaves, sunlight, free verse songs...
I feel compelled to leave of grass
and bury myself in his lines, his tender epitaphs,
but something holds me back each time.
I cannot stomach comradeship,
the masculinity he loved, as soldiers sleep by lakes
and woo, women sew the meadow's store,
and everyone is ripe with joy, stranger holding
kind stranger, Indians and whites at peace;
what is this strange utopia, this place we tell children about
to placate them each night?
I do not live for misery, to write my destiny
in tears, but facing life, and death, and pain, as Whitman deigns
to do sometimes, is I feel more noble than
the optimism of the blind.
I cannot stomach comradeship,
the masculinity you loved, as soldiers sleep by lakes
and woo, women sew the meadow's store,
and everyone is ripe with joy, stranger holding
kind stranger, Indians and whites at peace;
what is this strange utopia, this place we tell children about
to placate them each night?
this optimism of the blind denies the tombs,
the leaves which fall on great stone beds
and wither in the summer light. when you explore
this transaction, this last exchange, immortal fields
of your bright world have more subtance,
feel like home. by acknowledging the moon
you justify the sun. I wish you'd done so more often.
***
Original:
flashes of brilliance bestow
the verses by this Yankee dear
with something nearing false legend,
a tale we believe in youth
but grow to distrust as we age.
tomb leaves, sunlight, free verse songs...
I feel compelled to leave of grass
and bury myself in his lines, his tender epitaphs,
but something holds me back each time.
I cannot stomach comradeship,
the masculinity he loved, as soldiers sleep by lakes
and woo, women sew the meadow's store,
and everyone is ripe with joy, stranger holding
kind stranger, Indians and whites at peace;
what is this strange utopia, this place we tell children about
to placate them each night?
I do not live for misery, to write my destiny
in tears, but facing life, and death, and pain, as Whitman deigns
to do sometimes, is I feel more noble than
the optimism of the blind.
"We believe that we invent symbols. The truth is that they invent us; we are their creatures, shaped by their hard, defining edges." - Gene Wolfe

