Once I watched a public television history of an Irish poet. I would love to remember his name because he was amazing. His poems were long and rich. They fell off the tongue smoothly; and I could tell he was like Mozart, a born genius.
The story, however was very tragic. He was a soldier and had done something wrong. He had either committed treason or had been captured. Whichever, he was going to be executed. I don't know if I felt worse for the loss of the man, his art, or his potential. I just know that even though I saw this story over twenty years ago, I still remember the image.
This poet's experience has taken on a deeper meaning for me. It is the loss of art in all of us due to the social rat race, not only the work-a-day race, but the personal one. The sharp jabs from those closest to us even if unintentional can leave us feeling vacant and emotionally slain.
.....a lass
the distant moon so wan...
so what? What can they do
with your irregular honesty?
Walk you up, hand held a hill
of poetry? Allow you visions
of meaning until meaning
is gone? Then shoot you and
your accomplice at dawn.
December, 2002
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