Tuesday, July 31, 2012

Variation on a Primal Theme (Poetry)


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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