Blueprints of Destiny

for Ken S., living atist and poet. More commentary to follow.

We put things in caskets.

 

I once thought I saw something so beautiful

it only existed in the imagination of the world’s

greatest artist, who stood tall on the cliffs above

your North Sea and plucked a moor flower from

the earth to place into the heavens, alight, in

now constant motion dust unto a life breathed

into it by the hopeful, loved forever by the dream;

 

the sigh of relief of those who collectively finally

found a respite, the earned luxury of the occasional

afternoon to daydream, to sit on park benches under

trees and read books, away from the anxiety that

gnaws on the bones of the day, free of targets of

religion and non-religion pinned to their backs by

the hateful, awash in afternoon sunglow. Peace.

 

But we put things into caskets.

 

We tell our children to dream, but only until the

time comes to get to work, then it is place your

vitality into this harness and use it to pull this box

pointlessly across deserts of mental dullness. Over-

produce, be too efficient, love too little and

compensate too much with middle-class approved

entertainment. Worship those gods that consumed

the earth with iron maws and steel conveyors.

 

Extraction, exploitation, transformation, consumption.

We eat and eat our way through the flesh and into

the ribs and heart and guts of every beautiful thing

the world knows, destroying without the curiosity

that allows re-assembly of the thing. God gave us the

language of the stars and the blueprints to our destiny,

but we sacrificed them on the altar of domination.

 

The things we put in caskets:

 

Fertilizers of children’s minds, bodies, dreams. Our

own bones gazing back at us in the hall of smoke and

mirrors of apathy. We plan time for passion, and daily,

responsibility and duty eat it, a limited harvest

consumed by endless plagues of Sisyphean starlings.

Unhurried, not frenzied, not starved like our souls. Just

relentless and efficient and impersonal. Eaters of

opportunity and safe spaces. Consumers of divergence

and dissent.

 

What we grieve in empty halls and old belfries and among

rocks strewn in fields is nothing more and nothing less is

Dylan’s dying of the light. The flower that cannot

remember its dream of being a star; the star that forgets

its roots as a flower. Dear poet, thank you- for being a Voice

among voices. For helping this bitter flower recall

her early dreams of sweetness, for keeping awake

an interior space in an externally motivated time,

for breathing life back into children we extract

from forgotten excavated caskets.

Author's Note

I wrote this piece thinking of the various ways in which we bury alove our dreams, and those of others. It was inspired by thinking about the observation that the world is being overtaken by men without curiosity and hope and compassion; the kind of man of which it has been said, "who knows the price of everything and the value of nothing." I wrote this for a living poet who is the exact opposite of this kind of man.

Translated from the orignal in Spanish, which can be found here:

http://www.writerscafe.org/writing/zorra_encantada/1889976/

photo is my own, an obelisk in Xela in morning light

More commentary to come.

Reviews

[Tony Jordan]

We did as a people, fall into the trap of making useless things valuable and of demeaning the worthwhile - until their death then perversely putting a price on their life's work, commodifying their spirit.
Perhaps that was the fall from Eden that entered mythology.
This is a gorgeous poem which above all celebrates the remains of ancient connectedness in a world where dysfunction and disconnect ironically rises in tandem with the advancing information superhighway.
Ken is a great writer and artist. This is a wonderful homage.

[Poetic Beauty]

I love all the descriptions of this piece. It makes you think deeply.

[Ken Simm.]

To speak to this would take more words than I have or have ever owned. And the some that do come to me are woefully inadequate but I must perforce use them.
Thankyou.

[Mary]

oh boy! death of the creative soul is just that, isn't it? We place the life spark in the casket, as well as the future dreams and sparks of future generations. So many poignant phrases here, my favorite being "The flower that cannot remember its dream of being a star; the star that forgets its roots as a flower" Thank you, for this poem.
I have a similar one called "Spirit Suicide." if you care to take a look in your spare time(hehe)

[Emily B]

I need this. Today. So wonderful to see you so full of inspiration.

[boygene borice]

this poem speaks much and the reality of life. We are our own destruction, but we are blinded by so many illusions that surround us in the name of truth