Thom Garzone

How Poetry Began

Now the image was more clever than the other literary tools,

so imagery told the Drama:

“If you reveal yourself unto me, you will be remembered for all time,

your soul will forever be free, and you will be prophetic”

So the Drama consumed her work with imagery and when its spirit opened, she and Poet appeared naked, so then they enclosed themselves in libraries and auditoriums

They listened for Language in order to hide from Him, and said to their creator:

“We were frightened by our pureness, and our shamefulness”

Language asked them, “Have you written with imagery when I instructed you not to?”

“It was imagery that fooled us and told me, ‘we would be remembered for all of time,’” Drama replied

Language answered them back: “Since you have expressed images, human art thou among all other literary genres, and you both will be as erroneous as nature, and open shall be your form. And as far as you shall dwell, imagery shall be your ruler, and it shall obsess your minds, and devour your hearts”

Then to Drama Language spoke: “I shall intensify the struggle of your revision process, your edits shall bring forth critical epics, institutions, distinguished awards, and you shall have dominion over the stage”

So Poet filled Drama with sensory input, theatrical lines, stanzas, monologues, soliloquy and forms as sonnets and ballads, and both gave birth to the comedy and tragedy...”

I am Faust

I am the prophet who dreams, a saint whose prayer is for a babe

wishing for skies to brighten the dark limbs of chance.

I am the legend selling their soul for stock in society,

or slaves who are imprisoned by the system.

I am he who whispers words, spinning tales from laments, rhyming elegies

mad with memory. I am heaven and hell. I am the stranger who finds a path

to small town America, deserted and bewildered by the locals, as a wayward poet

who came back as a folk hero.

I am Faust wondering and ascending over the land, inscribing symbols upon mesas,

eternal shores that reveal masses in testaments of the damned and into a paradise misunderstood.

I master destiny by foreseeing these banal, iconic images that collaborate with fools,

charming club dancers to ramble into the planet’s every corner, spreading praises to the gods.

We are Faust, you and me, my reader; we stand at the gate of the universe

poised, singing our myth of success.

Retreat

Hectic morning pulses in soulful vibes,

mad dash to store, racing to be ahead of life

Afternoon at library where I gather mindful glimpses

in storied aberrations of time

I'm packed, ready and at long last hear from friend in NA

and we head off to a hot springs radiating the spirit,

enraptured dream clearing each being

sharing, conversing, and downing coffee, our one vice

Wind rushes as lithe wisps that sing to shimmering leaves

glowing in my memory, translucent, palpable and free

releasing these hills and prairies and deserts

upon their images of dawn

Men remain tranquil and bear their past like warriors

Saturday afternoon and a small town waitress flirts

with our sorrow and after a hot spring's talk

my NA buddy and me are led to a canyon

ingrained with ageless volcanic Earth,

and rushes in pools of wonder and lonely desire

Sweat from our pores, and with our throats drying,

we reach the virgin lake where I hustle into the icy water,

tears of the natural world, longing for the chill to stir me

from my battered heart of nowhere love, or an

empty pilgrimage upstream to spawn

with women who have entered the crags with us,

and breed among the aquifers like rabbits

(but only more human-like)

This one day exhibits the fervent wait till next year, and on Sunday

I slip out of my sleeping bag to drift away back to an orchestra

of daylight snores, grilled sausages, and my companions on their farewell winds