The Poet

A poet sees beneath the surface of things.
His eyes are dazzled by the splendor he beholds.
But he also perceives the squalor of the surface.
If his Third Eye cannot reconcile
These two extremes,
He faces mental havoc with the dichotomy
Of his poetic vision and his perception
Of phenomenal reality.

He stumbles upon the magnificent
Splendor of Infinity entering into
That domain unexpectedly,
Without rigorous disciplined preparation,
Emerging from it entirely mad,
Demented by Rapture,
Intoxicated by Bliss,
Mortally wounded by the mystery of Beauty!

He must return again to that wonderful world!
Beauty seems to have the answer
To his transcendental questions.
Contemplating the conundrum he falls
In love with the Enigma though he feels so
Deeply the ugliness and sorrow of the
Daily world he has temporarily abandoned that he
Wonders if Beauty ends or begins with dissolution.

When he returns to live and breathe on the surface
Of things, on the cheerless ordinariness
Of existence, he rebels against this outrage.
He feels trapped in an unfathomable nightmare.
After all, he is perfectly aware
Of his birthright of freedom. However,
Existing as he does between heaven and hell,
He does not know yet how to be free.

When he does not stay within the universe
Of his poetry he lives in constant torture.
He tries to assuage his pain with alcohol.
Tries to escape from guilt with drugs or looks for
Relief in the bitter sweetness of the pleasures
Of the flesh. Life has taught him never to
Place his trust and hopes in promises and
Illusions but, like a phantom,

The vague recollection of the haunting
Permanence of Beauty stalks his
Waking hours forcing him to rely
On what his mind and senses have
Instructed him to ignore and to forget.
What is the answer to his plight?
To perish or strengthen his heart by forsaking
His muse and treading the path of the mystic?
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