Declaration and Demands

[Seated At A Cherrywood Desk En His Uncle’s Tuscan Villa,
The Divine Messenger Puts His Bamboo Quill 2 A Blank Sepia Page.

En A Writing Vox, Born Of Love And Courage, He Authors A Declaration
And Then A Litany Of Demands On The Present World And Its Amoral Pantheon.]

WE choose 2 not defile our spirits with your political bodies
WE choose 2 not be the building stones of an economic bastille
That will enevitably call upon us 2 smith shackles 4 our brothers
And then ourselves

WE choose 2 not do this
WE choose 2 not lie, cheat, and steal
WE choose 2 not have our spirits brought 2 heal

WE choose 2 not fear our neighbor
2 not envy his happiness
2 not covet his dame

WE choose 2 not walk blindly
2 not be blind

WE choose 2 not shed another precious drop of blood
4 the brutes en suits
And striped silk ties

WE choose 2 not covet the purse of our countrymen
WE choose 2 not hoard the pantry’s Ghee
When WE know there are Paupers and Pros who need it most

WE choose 2 not demonise
WE choose 2 not hate
WE choose 2 not be the willing (or unwilling) host
Of an ill-conceived and misanthropic fate

This,
WE choose

This here!
This here!

{Two-Beat Pause}

WE choose Beauty o’er Fashion
WE choose Resolve o’er Blame

WE choose Thalia o’er Scarcity
WE choose Bliss o’er Fame

Thus

WE, the Seekers and Sowers of The Aesthetics Underground,
Demand a great healing 4 a world terribly sick

A world w/out oil (4 the lantern’s wick)
A world w/out flow

A world w/out light
A world w/out soul

{One-Beat Pause}

A world w/out poise
A world w/out rarefied aire
(4 the Righteous 2 breathe)

A world w/out maidens,
Tall, blonde, and irresistibly fair
(Much too fair 4 Love’s Rogue 2 leave)

{Fingercymbals-Twice}

WE demand Prometheus be unbound
WE demand Atlas be given wings
WE demand Medusa be adored (4 the divinity she is)

WE demand the right of our Heav’nly Grandmother’s apron pouch
2 house a bevy of otherworldly things:

Golden Apples,
Figs and Almonds and Pomegranate Seeds!

WE demand a new Garten 4 Adonis
And a new grazing Skye 4 Apollo’s fiery steeds

WE demand that Mercy like Misery
Be given the freedom 2 walk stride 4 stride

From dusk ‘til morn
From tide 2 tide

{Two-Beat Pause}

WE demand that ev’ry Prince and Princess born
Be granted the means 2 re-di-rect their personal lot

WE demand an arrow thru ev’ry heart
And a shakti 4 ev’ry maverick, en the thicket, caught

Thus

WE, the Seekers and Sowers of The Aesthetics Underground,
Demand a great healing 4 a world terribly sick

Sick of Sorrow
Sick of Ignorance

Sick of Tyranny
Sick of Pain

Sick of Division

Sick, sick, sick
. . . at heart

© The Herder 20Seventeen

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Porta

As the poet strives to find his voice in the flow . . . of metre and rime, his early swagger
is chipped away slowly by the triumphs and tragedies inherent in the nature of his work. This chipping away continues until he realises, to his astonishment, that he is not the source of his poetry’s psychic content. He, along with his experiences (every first kiss and heartbreak), is a portal through which this content pours from a source seemingly Eternal that paradoxically resides on and off the corporeal plane.

Admittedly, this is a romantic notion open to derision and accusations of egotism and mythic inflation. However, the history of verse prompts us to suspend such attacks. Possessing the power to put maidens into a swoon and bestow upon the common man the knightly pluck to fight or fuck, verse has been credited with the creation of pantheons, monsters, and civilisations, not to mention the act of creation itself.

You need only call to memory a poem, song, or lyrical drama that so affected you that you were convinced it was composed solely to soothe your particular pangs and mend your ailing soul to know there are creative works which do not originate in the human heart. Upon reading Rumi, Dickinson, and Hesse, one cannot help but see evidence of an otherworldly presence expressing what is universally sublime and sublimely universal.

The poet’s realisation and, more importantly, unwavering acceptance of this romantic notion is the defining moment of his writing life. So much so that regardless of what else he chooses to do with his existence, once he is fully aware of the link between himself, the corporeal plane, and the Eternal, he will live his life poetically whether he wields a quill, a spreadsheet, or a plumber’s wrench.

© LogosVox 2014