Tonight is a dark night
For my Muse is silent.
How long will the Light
Be out? The candle is spent,
And inspiration is still.
Must I be another Faustus
And sell my soul to the devil?
Or should I bid lasting adieu
To Calliope and to Priapus?
It's midnight; words are few
And the soul cries out for more.
Why must I grope in the dark
And with the void make war
That I may sing like the lark
Which in a single soaring flight
Make the gods smile and cheer
While the poet faces his plight
In great bewilderment and fear.
How sad is the poet's lot
When the Muse is gone a'roving?
Faced with a Gordian knot
That ties every thought'n feeling
Must I be another Alexander
And with one swift thrust
Cut through the mind's barrier
And revive the word from the dust?
Why does anyone choose to be
An unsung, unknown and lone poet?
Is it not better to feel free
And just marvel at a sunset
Or sunrise or feast one's eyes
On hyacinths, roses and violets?
But there are days when the skies
Seem to cry out for some poet's
Heart to spill blood and tears
For them and in one supreme line
Make immortal what he reveres.
Alone man cannot fully fathom
The wonders of his visible universe
Let alone of the invisible kingdom
Which weighs on him like a curse.
He is born to love, but lives to hate,
His imagination can fly faster
Than light but alas! his fate
Is to see the stars without ever
Being able to touch and feel them.
He is Prometheus unbound in spirit
But bound in flesh and clay that stem
The creative flood which knows no limit.
He wants to be a god like his Creator
But knows himself to be like the worm
Subject to the implacable laws of nature.
Deny as he may, he cannot affirm
Beyond reasonable doubt the purpose
Of his existence or whether life itself
As he knows it is not a dream to lure us
From illusion to illusion, an impish elf
That leads us from ocean to ocean
Without any shore or port to anchor at.
Will our soul ever reach safe haven
After this long journey of copious doubt?
Silent Muse, voiceless but so eloquent!
You inspire the restless heart to feats
Of grandeur, the pregnant mind to vent
The soul's sickening anger as it retreats
Into the confines of its mortal frame.
You let us catch a glimpse of paradise
But lead us to Hades' rapacious flame.
Everything that is seen by human eyes
Is transmuted into living verbal flesh
By the sorcery of your secret alchemy:
In the beginning was Logos made flesh
And the Logos became the great Deity.
What if one day, beyond life's portal
We awake from our ponderous dream
And find ourselves to be immortal?
What then? Won't that too seem
As unreal and senseless as this existence?
Will we be immortal or only our pain?
Can we be so vain as to play dalliance
With the gods and not become insane?
And yet within the heart's deepest core
When the mind is at rest and thoughtless,
Can be heard a faint voice that of yore
Must have inspired dread in moonless
Nights when the world was still young,
Fresh and verdant with sweet innocence:
It tells of a time when man walked among
Gods and angels, beings of divine essence
And he himself was cloaked in a mantle
Of divinity: In truth, he was once a god,
An angel of light, kind and gentle!
No one really knows how he fell from grace:
Most of what we know is myth or legend
That poor souls invent to better face
The insoluble puzzle that knows no end;
But there is a kernel of truth in all legends
However far-fetched, however outrageous
And we hear it as from some faraway lands
That time forgot but which lives on in us
And which haunts us until our graves:
It is the Voice of our Past, of our Origin,
The primeval lifeforce which often saves
Us from Faustian folly, the ultimate Sin.
As limited as we are, we must believe
That life is not but a dream; what we see
With our eyes is not make-believe
But the fingerprint of of our past divinity.
We can regain it and with it the lost Eden
Where once we were at one with the universe
And all we have to do to re-enter Heaven
Is to follow the inner voice that from first
To last has been guiding us to the golden
Path, the holy trail that leads to the Light,
The ever-burning bush in whose fire Man
Will eventually ascend from darkest night
Into the realm of gods, and himself be a god:
But will man still be a fool and not believe
Prefering to salvation the lightning's rod,
Or will he heed the voice of wisdom and live?
Claudio Wye
November 2000
