(a poem for Shab-e Yalda)
He walks in beauty, like the Knight,
Refusing Sovereign; Rather shies
From usual armor, for the fight
To wrestle meaning from the lies.
The Persian poets sought Divine
Through whirling turns of godly dance,
And reveries of ruby wine;
They're drunk when given half a chance.
In Xanadu, Sam found his mate ,
Inspired by the addict verse,
With some exotic opiate,
Came fit of wit to do its worse .
So, bit by bit, I have turned junkie
To a ghost, a phantom limb,
Of a special magic monkey.
I cannot scratch this itch for him.
I’m fair sozzled on the Word.
Hooked. Veiled, they communicate
A face unseen, a voice unheard.
This sucker's punched. It is my fate.
As Paraclaus sits at adore
A-musing on a letter;
The Raven mutters, "Nevermore" -
Some longings hid are better.