35. Poetry

35.2. Poemotions

35.2.6. Text of book

Start of page 305 in the book

Part Fourteen

The Fell Sergeant Death

Prologue Fourteen 306

Juggler Vain 307

I Thought I Recognised Them 308
The Conscious Embryo to his Aborting Mother 309
Suicide's Lament 310
The Days of History 311
The End that Counts 312
Thanatos 313

Heaven or Hell or Nowhere 314

Start of page 306 in the book

Prologue Fourteen

When it comes to the Grim Reaper one would rather not know I gather (reporting honestly as always). But I rather think they do want to know. I think you want to know. I know I want to know. So we all want to know, if we're honest. And who can blame us?

But who is honest nowadays? Who was ever honest? Except honest poets such as my humble scribing self, striving to carry out their duty of reflecting and echoing the truths of the Universe.

Various aspects of grim Death are portrayed in these few poems. For you it is not enough I know. Nor is it really enough for me. I'm sorry not to bestow more comfort - or greater knowledge of the Universe. But such knowledge is not given to us humans.

Death is like that, unfathomable - and I hate it. As we all do. In Death there is no comfort, and we'd better face up to it. We die, and that's it.

Or is it?

First we meet the Juggler vain. When his balls drop, Juggler sighs. When his day ends, Juggler dies. Who are these people, the strange ones, chopping emotions (maybe poemotions) into the shape of words? Then there is the one who dies without ever being born: the conscious embryo. A suicide laments: the gas that choked me I took for free; dying's easy - paying's the difficulty.

I regret the days that are gone, the days of history that rule us still. Then there is the end that counts: the impulses that know; gaunt figures of one life. I feel the strong desire to weep, for no reason but old Thanatos. We shall end up in Heaven or Hell - or nowhere.

Start of page 307 in the book

Juggler Vain

Slight of figure
sleight of hand
hides his heartache
beats the band

Heart beats faster
pain flies out
clever Juggler
feels no doubt

Juggler juggles
all night through
juggles his lovers
two by two

When his balls drop
Juggler sighs
when his day ends
Juggler dies

Start of page 308 in the book

I Thought I Recognised Them

Who are these people, the strange ones,
speaking from within themselves, speaking out:
chopping emotions into the shape of words?

Who are they? Why, you know them.
They climbed from the shell that holds you.
They rose from beside you, they look down on you.

You are their brother.

Start of page 309 in the book

The Conscious Embryo to his Aborting Mother

Sharing this body you think only yours
I, the conscious embryo,
staked my slight claim -
a life in yours (though unregarded).

I requested a future
stretching beyond yours.
You started something, making important,
the conjunction of your sharp lust and his.

Over and done with
you lightly thought that episode was,
glancing back at a few charged moments.
Throughout it all (this will surprise you) I was conscious.

For I am the conscious embryo,
assured of birth at last.
While having no present vanity,
I claimed that birth as a leap into both our futures.

As the conscious embryo,
sharing your swelling body,
my slight claim was
not to be murdered.

Tell me why am I now on the move,
swirling down this efficient tube to the sewer?
Why am I looked upon as discarded tissue
consigned to this doom by my cherished mother?