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I WITHOUT INSPIRATION
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SYD BARRETT AVENUE
I without inspiration
set out to reprieve
the long lost Autumn leaves
colored and falling
from the trees
no longer feeling the pure
flow of muses
chanting sweet melodies
over the air
of Yoruban drums
I am cast aside
by the mythological
creation of myself
an image created in my own
likeness that I
no longer have
the strength or desire
to maintain
I created the myth,
the poet and have
found the deceit
too bitter to swallow
Beauty like acid
sears the flesh
insulted
by my own mortality
and human blemishes
The scars on my mind
run deep as the bombs
drop on the fields
desecrating
the sacred soul
of my poetry
The inner self is buried
under reruns
of old TV shows
that portray
the perfect neurotic family
and now. . .
and now the vision is clouded
under nagging pestilence
and self doubt
Sinking into the abyss
of failure I cling
to Rimbaudien grandeur
and calligraphic letters
of my soul
trying to well
to the surface
and form poetry
Iridescent jewels
lay wait buried
deep in the archives
of Jungian archetypes—
my brittle fingers
give in to Arthritis
and the pen slips
from my hand
A cruel joke; the comic
takes off the face paint
to reveal the teary eyed
faces of Ancient Indian warriors
dropping their bows and arrows
as the bullet
pierce their flesh
The sandlewood incense
is aflame with mood
elevation but
the ambience is penetrated
by that damn nagging bitch
called insecurity
and I glance at Isis
in her silk robe;
her green eyes following
my movement with both
disgust and fascination
I am beneath her
and the thrusts
of her rhythmic dance
inflame my soul
but the invalid cries impotence
the pen falls limp
from the heart of the flame
the grandiloquent vision is
elusive; deceptively quick
as it scurries away from
my grasping imagination
Whitman and Blake both offer
Hope for the wretched
but I am even lower
than those who dwell in
the underground of urbane
unreality
that murdered 1000s last year
and in my hand is held
the pen with clotted ink
unable to scratch
the words of the poem
and what fucking good will
it do anyway?
An answer
I can not question
Seeking opaque shelter
in the caverns
of the Meanderthal man
I am thus exposed to the light
but it does not cause
my being to crumble
and perhaps that is
an answer
or temporary appeasement
but just to be
and to do
is something in itself
The days of innocence
indeed are gone
but as the tot
is forced from the womb
weaned from Mother’s milk
to solid food—
there is still hope
The child is grown is
the redundant theme of the day
and yet somehow. . .
and yet somehow there is true
inspiration to be found
in a rising sun or a view of the sea
breaking waves of water
unto the shore
The caterpillar enters into
the cocoon stage
hiding from the light
til the time is right
for the butterfly
to emerge and take flight
and dazzled by its beauty
even the winds
stop their howling
and the rocks of the centuries
pause to take note
Is this enough?
It’s not too early or too late to tell
It’s just something the war torn
battered spirits need
to replenish their sinking souls
as hope springs eternal
so too does
the triumph of love
emerge in the face of death—
on the eve of destruction
to lift the deflated prophets
of the dream’s final truth
6-24-91
