The Warring Muse
Poem By David SmithWhite
The task is thankless for the journeyman-sage,
when the stark blankness of the staring page,
marks a rage at marching age and impotency.
Time beats the inexorable drum, of entropy and decay.
But I am stoic, and not resigned. Neither heroic,
nor inclined, at this late stage, to tilt at the vast
instrument and apparatus of Mammon, or cast
on antic forges, the dull automatons of resistence.
And by risking, thus provoke the ruthless minions,
the mill and arch machinery of the ruling interest,
to a crueller, cruder usage of violence as defined.
I read the signs of battle, so assigned, and waged
by other more subtle minds. I dread the final rattle,
as I lurch between the broken lines of canon.
The language in the trenches is a mother lode
to mine, though not much beloved of my brother
poets, whose kith and kind, write with a studied
eloquence, of silence. And I too, am mute.
I too, dismayed. Struck dumb, and afraid,
of the sheer creative vacuum, to come.