Lost In Paradise
Heavenly Hosts, by Gustavo Dore, 1866, illustration to Paradise Lost by John Milton
No need to save for me a space
Within the gleaming gladsome lands
Of paradise embellished second-hand.
I lack the grace to tolerate
Its jejune joys and discount bliss,
Nor can I bend to the proffered kiss
That glances off my calloused cheek
And falls in listless circles to the ground.
Yet have I time to look around,
To harken to the soothing sound
Of infants cooing softly in the breeze?
And shall I stay for just so long
As joy may take to sing her song
While flirting with the tatters of my mind?
The part-time pilgrims all march forth
To seek a blessed sanctity
(A gain of some enormity)
Before their ample breakfast has been served.
They illustrate their deep intent
With piercing focus, then relent
As some new wonder palpitates the sky.
They all draw near to lend an ear,
Then flee in spurts to grab dessert,
Like harried tourists lunching on the fly.
I lack, no doubt, the means by which
To prize these smarmy banquet smiles
That spread a bit of welcomed cheer
Upon the lowering underside of fear.
The glad-eyed gazes oozing charm
Align themselves like painted tiles
Upon the weathered face of anguish past,
Then struggle to maintain a fragile grasp.
“How nicely done!”
Someone will say,
Then sharply turn and look away
As rain carves trenches in the morning sun.
Yet where is radiance so clear,
So poised to pierce the crusts of time,
That I must now to it adhere?
Will I lament this passing phase
Of dancing legs and widespread arms
That must have sheltered many lives
Enveloped still in hallowed haze?
And shall I leave without a word,
Small token of my kind regard,
As though it could be heard?
And all the while they toil on
With unrelenting mastery
The artisans who craft with ease
An insulated heaven-home
Filled with tasteful custom charm
Full certified to please.
Do not mistake (I beg of you)
The sacred places that ensnare,
The guileful graces, smooth as cream,
That power only players in a dream.
Do you not see the yearning hearts
That soar to an exalted height
When guided by the ardent thrust
Of dangerous delight?
Follow then the sharp descent
The rupture of a soul’s consent
As nightly fractures ramify
Through life’s well-crafted plan.
Note the frequent after-blows,
Then join me in a temperate repose.
Restrain, for now, the harmonies
Of lofty lilting sacred songs
That circle high above
Like hungry hawks.
Yet note the rusty residue
Of solemn prayer, diffuse and stale,
Retreating just beyond attention’s span.
And note the ghosts of doleful cries
Reduced to decimated dust
Now gathering like summer’s mold
Within enfolding fissures of the mind.
And can you now refuse to me
A refuge from such poignancy?
I shall withdraw from pleasing scenes
Newly painted on the screens
That hold the Void at bay.
I shall evade congested spheres
Magnetic places, masking tears
And seek instead the least of profane lairs.
Here matters of no consequence
And fleeting reminiscences
Are overlooked
And quite mistook
By bright invading eyes.
Here the trifling little things
Still beckon with rare subtlety
Beneath the twisted tangled net
Of time’s tendentious reign.
Exiled in forgotten spots
Apparent things untie their knots
And send aloft with shimmering cues
A faint caress with one address:
Eternity.
I seek to make the seen unseen
The heard unheard
The known unknown.
I seek anew the ecstasy
Of careless crystal flakes of snow
That melt upon the sun-warmed rock
To show the eery emptiness
Of every thing that is.
So send me not that dazzling light
That thrills the tendrils of desire
And thwarts the mystic night.
Yet spare for me a gloaming space
That blurs all edges
Blunts the sun
And blends the strangeness of today
Within the unknown One.
