December 26th, 2010

crumpet2

(no subject)

Criticism

His quiet songs of mourning – single notes
held almost to sweet agony then fall away
leaving a hint of echo – he would play
deep in the forest. Nobody devotes

time to perfecting pain except for those
who only know its language now, forget
the joys that they have lost for good, and yet
make loss their god. And so Orpheus goes

to death. His quiet keening comes to ears
that love another music, loud and coarse,
clashing of pans, the thigh-bones of a horse
used to beat time, harsh Bacchic songs. His tears

are seen as insult, not as tragic art.
Wine's outraged devotees tear him apart.
crumpet2

2010

A year of long-expected political catastrophe that turned out quite different and yet quite as bad as expected. Also, a year of sudden hope of something new that might work out in the long run.

Interesting times.

Personally, the year in which I learned definitively that I am, after all, a poet. Well, whoopdedo.