The Greek gods were the perfect metaphor
of human self importance, the attempt
to be a bee like TS Eliot, to express
in honeyed contempt sad life, voices
having sway over us: a backroom deal
by Ezra Pound, the whining wife’s. Poor Tom!
He knew nature was larger, was indifferent,
and the poet says what no one likes to say:
human attempts are hopeless.
There is a whispering void
in which all voices fall. Meaning is an echo,
an empty ceremony in a Nathaniel Hawthorne wood.
Conflict is all—rage and cruelty, resulting
in the excitement which temporarily forgets
how dull and hopeless everything is.
Already forgotten, who won the super
bowl last year. Saying, “super bowl” sounds stupid.
That was super! Caitlin Clark scored
thirteen thousand points and made a shot
and got a hug from her dad. Listen to that
electric heater. The hum reminds me
of that evening of Greek chorus,
the posters, now yellow, which said “Greek Tragedy.”
My friend is telling me about a Delmore Schwartz
poetry reading. I’ll sit in that room.
Or will it be zoom? I forget. Tripped up by technology again.
I won’t be afraid. Maybe a little bored.
Bored? That’s not a word for poetry, is it?
When is my heart bored? It still beats,
it still beats. Miserable, miserable Delmore.
Schadenfreude of my dreams, at last.
Arriving with a new twist this Sunday?
How strange—nothing is ever empty.
It almost makes you believe in God.