Another field

I just got back from braggart expositions, the overcultivated, dried-out tracts
of advocacy.
Their fields of analysis weren’t fully reaped,
but I had to flee the void they inflated within me;
they drained me of decision;
they made me doubt my impetuosity, the only life impulse.

I returned to my precipice,
where I could watch the floods rise in wrath
and the retaliations of those dropped from the formulae of the initiates.
when the elect hitch me to the wrong harrows,
I throw their tools all for scrap;
they are left open-mouthed in their obscurity;
their tongues so quick to flicker over lamps of learning hang limp as I pass by.

It is necessary to exist in a very narrow space.
There’s no possibility for increase; there is a great probability of escalation.
A fresh ash covers me.
Only after it’s all over will I know whether memory redeems me.

I liked your dissertation. It reminded me there was another meadow
where figures cavort as a dawning possibility.
No shades drag their chains there.
I cautiously step within; I close my eyes; I am numbered as one of the dancers.
Now I can live with intent.

Andy Oram
October 31, 2006

More poems