Now, doesn’t that scene just lend itself to poetry?
Every responsible parent wants to see the children of the household get a decent education and then embark on a career course that will not only earn the kid a decent income, but will also provide personal satisfaction. Preferably something legal – although, the big bucks – no, never mind.
Yes, we want our kids to become doctors or lawyers or teachers or nurses or astute entrepreneurs. I was going to include journalists and considering the quality of some we see contemporaneously we are overdue for some good ones who even have a bit of mastery of the language. No, scratch the last reference before it evolves into a rant. Anyway, the premise was a decent and honorable living, so that kind of negates the journalism suggestion.
Periodically a kid, romantic stars in his or her eyes, wants to do something weird. Like become a philosopher. Well, for that one it is well to get a bit of life under the old belt. Twenty-year-old philosophers would strain credulity a bit.
Or a poet. Don’t hardly get much call for poets these days. I love poetry and I have a few lines of verse forevermore cached in my memory bank. Yet, poetry is a bit passé today. Sorry, rap is not poetry, it’s street doggerel. Hey, it’s my blog and I can be as biased as I choose.
But, I actually once thought it would be cool to be a poet. I also thought it would be cool to be an artist in a cold-water garret. Having since visited the odd old garret, I quickly changed that aspiration.
Anyway, I did write a bit of poetry in the day and now I shall impose one of mine on you. Be gentle with me. The following may or may not be based on actual experience,
The Madwoman is just past the gate.
She smiles, sometimes laughs, and always beckons.
But, when I get there, she is past — past the gate, to
the next gate in time.
She’s not elusive — just.
She is a dream of late night, of torpor, of drunkenness,
of loneliness less than aloneness.
The Madwoman deceives, lies, cheats, neglects, rejects, deserts;
and in that is so alluring.
The Madwoman seduces, with panache, and silken satiny beckoning into the abyss.
When there, I know I too am mad, but she hides my madness from me until she
has pulled me beyond view of the exits.
Yet, as I turn, she is gone.
Past the gate.
And she smiles, laughs and always beckons
towards that gate that comes before the thousandfold gates
ahead of her path.
And I will approach them all, oblivious to the knowledge
that this is my never-ending quest
for sanity and love
with the Madwoman.