Email Poem

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Poem

Drench me, O God;
pour upon me the excess of the heavens!
Drown me in the blood of the clouds,
and I will fight for my country,
fight for my brothers;
fight to be worthy
of your love and your creation -
and the warrior-poets of old will be proud.

I know how to live,
to deserve the cleansing rain.
I know how to write,
and I'm learning how to fight.
But bless me with nature's sweet shower,
and I'll be like no other.

Between three and four years later,
and reading the last makes me cringe -
I do believe I'll try again.

"O God" became godless, natural sky.
"I will fight for my country" became
I will scowl a little less,
smile just a little more,
as I remember that dream now dead.
"Your love and your creation" became
the love of one I don't believe is there -
worthy of my creation being anything more than luck,
by another myth, legend, deity that never was.
"The warrior-poets of old will be proud" became
maybe the will and the writing will be enough
to assuage my forced idleness, my vitriol;
my joy at the thought of impending escape.

"I'm learning how to fight" became
they taught me how, as well as to hate.
"I'll be like no other" became
I'm no more in valiant deed, in fact less,
than so very many.

Now if I do say so myself, that's better,
or at the very least more accurate, up to date -
but I don't think that's all there is in me.

"I don't drink" became
"I drink for flavor", became "I drink".
Unknowing exuberance became knowing exhaustion,
hunger for a greater purpose became
an unprecedented yearning for the lesser.
Energy intended for discipline, strength, became
fire funneled into frustration,
ardor affixed on anger.

From one to another, such a seamless step;
but from that to another,
or even back to one,
such the strenuous sojourn.

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