DEJA VU
They (the arbiters of taste and art and literature,
Bestowers of the benison of fame)
They say, "One cannot be a poet
Unless he has a certain sense of place--
A knowledge of his 'roots,'
An understanding of the heritage from which he's sprung!"
And they delight in affectatious dialect--
A drawl or twang or brogue to demonstrate they have been graced
With sufficient overlay of place
To bear the title "poet."
"But what," I ask, in my quietest, most self-effacing
manner,
"What of the certain sense of self?
Does that not give me the right to write?"
For the "sense of place" is sometimes--often--more than I
can bear--
I have been many places, and I find that everywhere
I go, I know, yes, know that I have been before.
Each new hamlet a homecoming to my self--
Sometimes bountiful . . .
Sometimes painful . . .
Beneath the wheels of the carriage,
I watched my sweet husband die--
His blood on the wet cobblestones not red--
Becoming dirty pinkish gray in the Paris gutter,
Transmuted by the rain . . .
Chanting the Latin words,
I knelt, and scoured the worn, grey stones,
Murmuring prayers at Evensong--
Et benedictus, fructus ventris tui Jesus--
Quietly yearning for the joy
Of some sweet woman's smile . . .
An ancient squaw
With withered breasts and wrinkled parchment face,
I yearned for the pleasure of not being owned
By my husband's whim--
Haggard and venerable,
I practiced and learned to love
Sweet discipline . . .
Trim, muscular, the image in the mirror says
"I am the Fencing Master of all France;
The Dauphin's in my charge--
My Wheel of Fortune risen to its zenith"--
I died in prison, naked, whipped, and bleeding,
Thighs pinioned wide,
For all the churlish guards
To take their pleasure . . .
I died in bed--
The woman under me was not my wife,
But a harlot who'd agreed to let me take my ease
For two loaves of my best bread . . .
Demure maiden, face whited with rice powder . . .
Brave general, envy of his troops,
Devourer of the Hittites . . .
And so it goes.
My Self weighs heavy on me.
To the arbiters of art and fame, I say:
Each place I go, I feel with certainty
The intimations of my immortality.
And for sweet Keats' sake . . .
Whatever happened to
Negative capability?
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