His every sentence pitted mortal thought
against that ruthless, terminating dot,
as if annihilation might precede
a new Aeneid no one needs to read.
He trimmed opinion, snipped off every bloom,
let feng-shui tyrannize his living room.
The world became a dollhouse, where the play
décor’s been curbed by, say, Corbusier.
He watched as vanity, knocked overboard
in all the rush to get new worlds explored,
abandoned ego to the wave’s caress,
while Indies bubbled up from emptiness.
For, in the end, who cares if loss arranges
all of Ovid and the Book of Changes
in a fermentation of the soul?
So many grapes will still be eaten whole.
| Copyright © 2017 by Eric Meub Eric Meub, architect, lives and practices in Pasadena. He is the adopted brother of the artist, Susan C. Price. They respect, in their different ways, the line. |  |
A new poem by Eric Meub, illustrated by Susan C. Price (from a photograph by the editor), about Odysseus...or Homer, or Virgil, or all those ancient writers of the story of questing, mortal man?
ReplyDeleteSuper, as always.
ReplyDeleteThanks for your poem.