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| The Director's Dark Cut |
My impulsive child
astride a white swan,
gallops away from Parnassus.
Calliope is incandescent.
She has cast her morals
down the gorge and claims
to be faithful to a reckless man
who wants to make her happy.
Such folly, we both know
happiness is only fit for fools.
A waste of spirit, she was born
to be the queen of verse.
Perhaps even to tower over Plath.
And what of me? Still pretending
to be a minstrel but without a song.
Our wasted gifts:
we needed each other’s pain to thrive.
I scold myself each morning,
poetry is not a serious job.
Perhaps I ought to learn to be a man
with wealth, power, and gravitas.
It's always the same though.
When night falls, I worry
I'm beginning to be sensible.
My fate has always been to live
inside the eye of the storm.
Wearing my Venetian mask
I step onto the stage with such
panache, an actor extraordinaire.
Yet each day, I sink into her world
of familiar turmoil and the endless
cycle begins once more.
Was I in truth the supreme director?
I wrote the script and had assembled
a troupe of two-bit actors for my story,
but now the film is in the cutting room.
The editor has in mind another version.
Part of the Mosaics cycle of poems
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