(After Cavafy)
The sun flattens your vision
to a wavering point.
You search for a different sun.
There is no other.
The wind stymies your breathing
to an asthmatic wheeze.
You search for a different wind.
There is no other.
The sea shortens your journey
to an anonymous port.
You search for a different sea.
There is no other.
The sky opens its vistas,
vast, beyond your reach.
You search for a different sky.
There is no other.
The city blots your horizon
with soot, smoke and ash.
You search for a different city.
There is no other.
The day dissolves in hours
without number or name.
You search for a different day.
There is no other.
Beauty upholds its ideal
like a statue without wings.
You search for a different Beauty.
There is no other.
The word pollinates the page
with a frail, feeble sense.
You search for a different word.
There is no other.
The self mirrors the cosmos,
a contracting black hole.
You search for a different self.
There is no other.
The poem laughs at your yearning
for Art’s Eternal Form.
You search for a different poem.
There is no other.
So you write the same poem
from the same shrinking self,
with the same weakling words,
seeking the same ideal Beauty,
On the same day after day,
in the same ***** city,
under the same endless sky,
beside the same aimless sea,
Into the same stifling wind,
blinded by the same soulless sun.
And you call it a different life.
But there is no other.
Aug 16, 2018
Aug 16, 2018 at 12:06 PM UTC
(After Cavafy)
The sun flattens your vision
to a wavering point.
You search for a different sun.
There is no other.
The wind stymies your breathing
to an asthmatic wheeze.
You search for a different wind.
There is no other.
The sea shortens your journey
to an anonymous port.
You search for a different sea.
There is no other.
The sky opens its vistas,
vast, beyond your reach.
You search for a different sky.
There is no other.
The city blots your horizon
with soot, smoke and ash.
You search for a different city.
There is no other.
The day dissolves in hours
without number or name.
You search for a different day.
There is no other.
Beauty upholds its ideal
like a statue without wings.
You search for a different Beauty.
There is no other.
The word pollinates the page
with a frail, feeble sense.
You search for a different word.
There is no other.
The self mirrors the cosmos,
a contracting black hole.
You search for a different self.
There is no other.
The poem laughs at your yearning
for Art’s Eternal Form.
You search for a different poem.
There is no other.
So you write the same poem
from the same shrinking self,
with the same weakling words,
seeking the same ideal Beauty,
On the same day after day,
in the same ***** city,
under the same endless sky,
beside the same aimless sea,
Into the same stifling wind,
blinded by the same soulless sun.
And you call it a different life.
But there is no other.
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