''Folly''
Mapmaker
Mapmaker
(poems)
by K. Scott Smith
1.
Once glorious seasons did compete,
each one, in turn arrived,
rising then receding,
like an hour,
some late and costly hour,
at days end.
Begins this dim union
of night, fog and stars.
Summer was full of promise,
each evening seemed to be on some verge
of something beautiful or rare.
Walking in gardens.
Tents of stormy dreams,
of wicked means
and clever quotes-
then it's Saturday again
and a host of bright globes takes me through the Forrest
and shows me the
new Winter's Moon.
2.
Her mouth is a constellation of stars,
I shall name them
and keep each name secret(for myself)
till times end.
I shall say nothing.
3.
The sciences of pride
of lonesome and sometimes loathe some
declarations of new honesty.
She demands respect
and for me to arrive erect
to drink vino from swollen breasts
she does not recall Sunday-
though Sunday was best.
I will tear away each piece of clothing
like I was stripping away illusions
like I was some mad or drunken man
bent on ravaging each perfect thing.
Where is the Mapmaker?
Has he gone?
Will he return?
4.
The branches are all but bare,
I walk among them speaking
I cursed any moment but this moment
and held contempt for anything other than now.
5.
Death will pass,
looking for eager
or at least curious volunteers,
finding many,
taking most.
The mother and the father of death
is each lively moment...
Fruit must grow, become ripe and fall
like everything else.
6.
I woke up with a cynic's eyes
but was moved still,
by the lovely thing beside me,
all weary and smiling.
High hopes,
sudden dreams rushing,
parting like Teutonic plates
or great writer hero lovers.
7.
Comforted by the strange sense
of sound breaking silence
like some vow
or some oath-
Some mispledged allegiance.
The silence becomes accustomed to itself,
almost proud.
Like some King of the Earth.
Swearing to curse all that would stand
with the shaking of fists
and the raising of voices.
End this dim union
of night, fog and stars.
8.
Strange fruit,
fallen from some high place,
some place stranger.
It waits to fall or be discovered.
Alchemy of all.
9.
Winter is ripe with myth
and myth-makers,
rich with mapmakers,
bridge-builders
weaving wings of words.
Strict new muses all rigid and tan
and softly sinister
To walk among common people and find nobility there,
in the swelling, swooning despair,
for loss and death hold great romance,
each hours end is the same as its beginning.
So,
are you too
a Mapmaker?
(poems)
by K. Scott Smith
1.
Once glorious seasons did compete,
each one, in turn arrived,
rising then receding,
like an hour,
some late and costly hour,
at days end.
Begins this dim union
of night, fog and stars.
Summer was full of promise,
each evening seemed to be on some verge
of something beautiful or rare.
Walking in gardens.
Tents of stormy dreams,
of wicked means
and clever quotes-
then it's Saturday again
and a host of bright globes takes me through the Forrest
and shows me the
new Winter's Moon.
2.
Her mouth is a constellation of stars,
I shall name them
and keep each name secret(for myself)
till times end.
I shall say nothing.
3.
The sciences of pride
of lonesome and sometimes loathe some
declarations of new honesty.
She demands respect
and for me to arrive erect
to drink vino from swollen breasts
she does not recall Sunday-
though Sunday was best.
I will tear away each piece of clothing
like I was stripping away illusions
like I was some mad or drunken man
bent on ravaging each perfect thing.
Where is the Mapmaker?
Has he gone?
Will he return?
4.
The branches are all but bare,
I walk among them speaking
I cursed any moment but this moment
and held contempt for anything other than now.
5.
Death will pass,
looking for eager
or at least curious volunteers,
finding many,
taking most.
The mother and the father of death
is each lively moment...
Fruit must grow, become ripe and fall
like everything else.
6.
I woke up with a cynic's eyes
but was moved still,
by the lovely thing beside me,
all weary and smiling.
High hopes,
sudden dreams rushing,
parting like Teutonic plates
or great writer hero lovers.
7.
Comforted by the strange sense
of sound breaking silence
like some vow
or some oath-
Some mispledged allegiance.
The silence becomes accustomed to itself,
almost proud.
Like some King of the Earth.
Swearing to curse all that would stand
with the shaking of fists
and the raising of voices.
End this dim union
of night, fog and stars.
8.
Strange fruit,
fallen from some high place,
some place stranger.
It waits to fall or be discovered.
Alchemy of all.
9.
Winter is ripe with myth
and myth-makers,
rich with mapmakers,
bridge-builders
weaving wings of words.
Strict new muses all rigid and tan
and softly sinister
To walk among common people and find nobility there,
in the swelling, swooning despair,
for loss and death hold great romance,
each hours end is the same as its beginning.
So,
are you too
a Mapmaker?
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