Problems of Existence

by IntrepidBeat

Posted to Poetry on 2002-10-05 21:19:00

I. Age, the Euclidian Ray

April is the cruelest month, breeding
Lilacs out of the dead land

No time here above others,
In cruelty or the like,
Because here, in this land,
Blows fall ever the same,
And bitterness rains as in the slightest
Of drops:
Wet to know, wet to touch, but soon to be gone.

Nam Sibyllam quidem Cumis ego ipse oculis meis
vidi in ampulla pendere, et cum illi pueri dicerent:
Sibylla ti theleis; respondebat illa: apothanein thelo.

Lament the old –
Lament Sibyl! Keep me not
In a glass jar.
Fate falls as it will,
Some poor, some not.
Knock loose the grains of sand
From my hand – Tempt me not,
Apollo! At least, in death, a change.


“Can you hear me, mother?”
Her lips move, but nothing.
“Mother, would you like the orange or the banana?”
Still can’t hear.
Can’t hear. Oh! I see, a choice.
Neither sit too well, and I can’t taste.
“I guess you’re not hungry, mother. Promise to eat later.”
Is she asking something? Smile, nod. Nod. Nod!

II. The American Soldier (Tet Offensive)

And so came in this boy,
And I being a triage nurse, knew right
Away his plight, and sent him to the doctor,
First in line – ‘Fight, boy, fight,’ I whisper to him.
A torn little soldier, army, age eighteen,
Both legs gone and a wound to the spine:
He would walk no more,
He would talk to more:
Call him the Unfeeling GI.

We were set to send him to an evac hospital,
The doctors their miracles on this body worked,
Though he remained motionless below his eyes,
Dead more than alive. We made up a cardboard
Chart, with letters corresponding to numbers.
One night, near the time of three, I sat there by his side,
Holding his hand, while he could not even grimace
In his agony. In the dead of that night,
When all things appear lifeless,
Shadows play on the wall, choking light,
He blinked out his words, numbers for letters.
It read:
12 – 5 – 20 13 – 5 4 – 9 -5
L E T M E D I E

III. Suburban Living

Here, the stones radiate their omnipresent
Stability;
Here, the rooted trees do not sway in the breeze,
But sometimes, in the strongest of winds,
Over the howl and swirl,
Can there be heard voices singing:
Raucous, pure, dynamic:
The choir of the world;
This land is not of the world

“Will you pass me the remote, dear?”
‘We won’t watch that show again!’
“I cooked you this meal; you owe me that much!”
‘This meal…again! And again! You owe me variety!’
“We will not have this fight again.”

Over here, where existence nurses
A sprained ankle,
Restrained to essence-
Infinity the final solid.

IV. Death Itself

The afterlife, a change in form,
A new venue to strut one’s existence-
New turf to feel between my toes,
New sights to capture my sight.

In its stagnant darkness,
Its hellish cries,
Its heavenly pleasures,
Death is no different than life.
Unchanging, bitter repetition,
The fall and rise of the sun, the creation
And extinction of life.

V. In Summation

Somewhere, though,
Out of the company of the dead,
Before they reach their ultimate
Waste,
And near to a lifetime before that,
Blast bombs to each moment,
To cataclysmic events rapped in an instant
And tied down to experience.
Fleeting feelings, apocalyptic,
Revelatory too:
Birth, and dying.

Ah, Humanity!

We are born to live.
We die to live.
Why the trouble in living through life?
We assuage our pain, and our knowledge
Of pain’s existence
With religion and love and pure life:
Your opiates have failed on me.

VI. Post Script: The Dawn Wind

This is but one world,
One of many, a grain of sand in Sybil’s hand;
You may not be of this world.
You may be one of those singing voices,
More joyous, more solemn, than a rising sun,
Casting away the shadows of the existence.
Worlds in worlds, a concentric hell, or worlds after
Worlds, it doesn’t matter to me:
I am of this world,
This hell,
This human life.


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