The Great Debate

Where to, now that the gray-thatched dome won't hold

back the rain washing away the last thought:

                                                                                  am I lost?

Not old, nor neither

spritely, mostly

in the muddled middle,

my mind is a decaying house:

        joists enjamb

        ed, joints

       distended

       my mortar cracked

from the dull ache of waste.

Words should signify order,

space within space

a warding off of darkness;

see how, they return,

the tentative slow feet

in pace...

come, let us pity them,

and remember

the unmarried married:

the dull head among

the windy spaces,

the word within the word.

Turn, and be turned

as never before:

breathe art into the dead halls,

take up pen and scribe

a new poerty--make light

of the tow-colored chaff

left in the wake of a season's mowing.

Do not despair your own age,

the slowly slowing gait of

sands washing through tides

of fast-rising tomorrows.

Remembrance is a false idol:

only fools think of themselves embalmed

in marble! Live, ache, make haste

your one consuming thought--

and write it large!

How now, sitting in the fast gathering shade

of October, the harshest of months bleeding

life from limbs, the quiet riot of mums

filling the gut, divides the divine

from the most pressing matters of a major

chord, grinding ounces to bakery pounds.

I sense ghosts, old men I no longer recognize,

languishing on the adjacent park benches,

terrorized by pigeons, their last few gobbled hours:

is this what it means to say

                                                 I am lost?

Stay in focus

do not confuse the symptom for the cause.

The dry season...

Ken e Bujold

© 2022

Author's Note

While an understanding or working knowledge of the works of TS Eliot and Ezra Pound is not needed to enjoy this debate, they will enable those who are to dive deeper into the debate. The starting point for this debate between the two literary lions, and great friends, is Eliot's "Gerontion" and EP's two minor works "The Return" and "The Garret" with a few odd bits of their major works alluded to.
This is the first, with a 2nd to follow momentarily, of what I have conceived as an ongoing work in progress. In time other giants of the modernist age will also make their appearances on stage for brief interludes. Though it will always be primarily TS and EP at the center. Hope for readers indulgence in what is a poet's indulgence.
Thanks
Ken e

Reviews

[jacob erin-cilberto]

we are in the midst of a dry season here...an odd October...and when a poet reaches the autumn of his life, he wonders...do all his experiences allow for some great poetry in the last third of life...or just a dried up well of words.
Maybe April is not the Cruelest month...maybe October is...because time is shrinking
and the days of our lives are getting shorter.
One of your best, Ken,
j.

[Ken e Bujold]

thank you for the kindness and insight of your review jacob

[duff]

"my mind is a decaying house"

That line kills it for me. Wow. Everything after is layer after layer.

[Ken e Bujold]

as it should be, when you are interpreting the debate between literary lions.
Glad you enjoyed the ride Duff

[Neville]

what a compelling read this proved itself to be my friend, & from one end, write to the very other .. excellent ink Ken :)

[Ken e Bujold]

thank you for indulging my little indulgence. and love the little sly dig of modernism you baked into the write.
Ken

[W. Barrett Munn]

I find this inspired and inspiring, a genuine pleasure not only to read but to absorb.
Impressive.

Winston

[Ken e Bujold]

thanks. really enjoy indulging my minor chord muse by times, and this was just such a time.