We Lost the Poetry

by Jonathan Page

The hands of the doomsday clock stand at five to midnight...

And no poet comes with luminous words like musical notes
That can burn through the fogs of hell and break the curse.
All the words are locked in vaults
While the world cries out for one true verse...
Have we lost the poetry?

Now, I know a cowboy in the boat of Ra
Who dropped two coins for the boatman
And abandoned his post along the wall

I got a postcard from the Volcano the other day
Read a psalm of Isaac, whispered by the Philistines
Where is that son of Jesse with his slingshot and his harp?
Will the young shepherd sling his stone?
Or will the mushroom cloud blot out the sun?

The doomsday clock ticks; two minutes to midnight
And on the nightly news, a decorated general says
"We may still retreat, but if we pass this little bridge
Nothing is left to us except to fight it out in arms."

I remember when I was young and the poetry was strong...
Before I heard the Lear'd Astronomer
Tease dawn from the shower'd halo
Somewhere near the Macy Projects in Brooklyn
Where I heard an urban poet rhyme "You Can't Knock the Hustle"
From the cracked window of a Chevy Nova
And I was "Feelin It"

And I know that since feeling is first,
He who pays any attention to the syntax of things,
Will never wholly kiss you while spring is in the world.
How long can the slackened soul rise without a verse
To soothe it like a cobra tamed by gentle notes.

The doomsday clock advances; one minute to midnight

Before I had the experience of repetition as death
There was an angel in the Baggage Room at the Greyhound
A tattered dharma bum with a haiku in his palm
Who told me to fear the Hunchback in the Park
And to not Go Gentle into that Good Night
For Fear My Words Would Fork No Lightning
And as the clock hands turn to midnight
A poet comes to speak the truth, and he says,
"The streets of heaven will be full tonight."

I fear my words have forked no lightning,

I see the pregnant warning in his eyes,

And watch the clock strike midnight...

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The doomsday clock clicks down to midnight.

We Lost the Poetry

by Jonathan Page

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