VARIATION
ON A PRIMAL THEME
A wizard told me a strange
tale ’bout a
future simian of transmuted
sight,
reborn to light new and
unheard of fires,
unique, but not for long a
neophyte.
Hear him scratch, digging for
he knows not what,
roused by the two-legged
beasts who plunder.
No alliance will he broker
with them.
He’ll only hold them somewhat
in wonder.
He will ponder the riddle:
why these beasts,
keenest of mammals, their
assets intact,
has him mimic their coarse
proclivities,
despite the rude ribaldry of
the act.
What storms of mind, what
spasms of the heart
render keepers as possessed
as the kept?
Is it some passion or idiocy,
something drunk or some foul
bed where they’ve slept?
He’ll evade this boorish
display no less
than a hidden hornet’s nest,
but he’ll probe
his newfound heart and soul
and signify
by a scratch fore and aft of
his earlobe.
Some strange mogul of the id
will teach him
that reason lies within his
gifted touch,
not to be deceived by cookie
fortunes
inside nut shells, cocoanut
husks and such.
All alone for what he’s
compelled to prove,
only by instinct will he
construe it,
no cricket, frisky frog or
tipsy toad
as intrepid as he to pursue
it.
Like his human forebears will
he then note
a grip his primate’s paw has
never known,
a distension from fetal
hunch, as from
some covert nucleus suddenly
grown.
A new current in the brain, a
new stretch
of skin, new quickening
concentration,
new sight with which to see,
new vigor in
the mind, free of animal
fixation.
Erect with his new and
riveting thoughts,
each moment will face him
with a new door,
entranced at the sun’s
elixir, over
which only lymphatic sight
glanced before.
The blink in his eyes will
become a flash,
opening the shutters to seek
and find,
the tongue, rash with sparks
of speech, feet in stride
with drummers in far corners
of the mind.
Thereafter, in a sedentary
pose
he’ll peruse what miracle has
been wrought,
his chin cupped in upturned
hands so as to
buoy the sacred head busy
with thought.
Hands will rest upon hips as
if to hold
in regal place the new
vertical line
drawn from the earth beneath
his feet and the
celestial heavens by his
robust spine.
But
a click of the heels together won’t
transport
this pilgrim home or make his day.
He
must trample the serpent’s lair, eat grass,
trusting
soil and rock to meet him halfway.
He
must be quicker than quick sand, kick stones,
walking
and running for all that he’s worth,
with
dagger speed cutting the air in front,
ready
for the next hard place in the earth.
From
nature below his feet and the grand
heavens
above his keen head, he will learn.
When
he finds his way back to the other
mammals,
some of them will greet his return,
though
they will be reticent to applaud.
But
eager for requital he will chance
To
don friendly footwear and on two legs
will
with open arms break forth into dance.
The
caper this time will be all his own,
no
mimicry, no burlesque, no pretense.
To no
drummer but his own will he jump.
He’ll
sing his own tune and make his own sense.
How
reads the weird tale after that, in what
precise
place will he be consigned to dwell?
No
oracle, no reading of the stars,
no
fervid prophet’s tongue can yet foretell.
To read other entries in my
blog, please consult its website:
enspiritus.blogspot.com
I welcome feedback. Direct it to bobracine@verizon.net
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