The Writer, The Fool

This poem was a personal reflection when I wrote it, but has since taken up the double purpose of representing the failures of a character I would later create named Lennie Midas.

The Writer, The Fool

 

Oh, silent night, calm and serene,

Dark and watchful, and infinite--

Endless, but for the repeating

Rise and fall, the breaking of white

Seas surrounding, of snow fallen

Fresh, and constant, and so complete;

The rise and fall, and the calling;

And the answer of heavy feet--

Heavy, heavy feet, and the heart

Of the man who owns them, moves them,

Is no lighter (though ‘twas to start).

Oh, silent night, and bitter wind;

There is no coat against you, none

That he would wear--could bear;

Where is his blizzard, like the lone

Boy--where is his friend?  Tell him, where--

But no.  Silent nights bring no storms,

Only magnify those that dwell

Already, and whose rosy thorns

Have fastened, ripped and torn so well

(for that is the price, and he paid).
Rise and fall, the feet; rise and fall

the heart (but mostly fall).  The wage…

Ahead, a low light: home and hall--

An old Inn, but he calls it home.

The Woodwork reads the sign aloft,

That snow obscures, but for the groan

Of lonely sway upon the soft

Blown winter’s breeze; and darkness fills

The lower halls, which once were lit,

But dwindled, like so many will,

Whose masters will not tend to it;

But in the upper room, a light

Still fills one slender, fractured frame

As might the ghost of fervent life,

Once left behind, and turned to flame.

The upper room is his, alone,

And all he needs; and all he has

Is there--his books, and all the bones

Of ev’ry failed fiction’d hand:

The Writer’s Grove, or Avalon,

This room is called on kinder days--

But not tonight.  The snow, anon,

Is on his heart.  Tonight, he says

‘That place is hell, and full of shades’,

As, from below, he loathes it all;

And turns, to read, the sign he made--

This Door is Closed, and Hearth and Hall.

The lonely stairs are his, and from

The nook of ev’ry forlorn clime:

Specters, haunts, to him will come

And speak of things he cannot hide

From, nor deny, nor answer,

Because they come from him; and he,

Alone, is to blame--creator

Of such dark, aborted beliefs;

Architect of his own abyss.

The candlelight burns, and burns him--

Luminates too much that he’ll miss

(and does); that was yet to begin.

‘Writer?’ he says, a grin so cold,

(don’t mind the tear he won’t let fall);

‘The Fool, is what I should be called,’

and turns his back upon it all.

The window groans for letting in--

The fictions dance, and some fall through

(that he will never touch again);

he pictures himself falling, too.

Now, out upon that white expanse,

Like markers of some lesser road,

How footsteps leave, and then come back:

Two setting out; and his, alone.

‘This is why I live in fictions,’

Says the Fool; and bitter resolve

Turns him to his latest dictions--

Turns his mind to their devolved

Bastardized state, which echo still

Like shades, foretold, but uglified--

As ev’ry spoken secret will,

Upon his lips, sputter and die;

And how he angers at the words,

Which glare as from some Neverland--

Half-covered, now, by wax and dirt;

One: I Could Be Your Ferdinand.

How perfect they all sit, like jewels

Still fixed within their interned frames:

First penned, to be forever new--

But crippled, now, by speech; now lame.

And who would know the fervent will,

The heart that penned them as they are--

Now broken, by the Fool, himself,

Now worthless as the Evenstar.

And he would burn them, turn the flame

Of that single candle to light

Those pages--but what would that change?

‘This house is cold, and so am I.’

But he is of that peculiar

Breed, who cannot help but destroy

All that they would keep intact, and

Maintain the things he can’t enjoy:

One of the Greats, that fabled lot

Who are the alchemists of life,

Just not hearts--perfect, but  ‘not

For me’; the better, not to try.

And wondered the Fool, who rightly

Recalled that proverb (all too true),

‘If the Nice are the last, tell me

what lot the Greats are destined to?

Is it true that we ne’er step wrong?

But through the glass, the honest snow

Does tell of missteps--and how long

They delve, how far beyond the glow

Of this poor light, poor Inn--but no.

The steps have gone, as like a dream--

Have been covered by night, by snow,

All; but what can cover memory? 

The calendar, with its black tongue,

Will tell no lies; the numbered phantom calls.

I’ll burn these pages, every one;

The Greats were engineered to fall.’

Author's Note

I know some people think that telling someone 'you're great, just not for me' is a nice way of letting people down easy. It's not.