Treasure Island

Robert Rorabeck

(04/10/1978 / Berrien Springs)

In The Realms Of The Unreal


In the heathenish country of enslaved white children,
Nine little girls become the martyrs who lead the Christian charge
(Sometimes stark naked,
And other times in blue dresses,
Coroneted by snow white swans)
Following the example of the god he knew,
He wrote the battle hymns to fill the bullet holes,
While his angelic daughters
Held half naked in his room,
Practice standing still against the trees,
So the professors of the hurly-burly come by
None the wiser with their muskets discharged
Into the earth in retaliation for the thirsting bayonets.
The godheads for the never-ending war,
These golden-bobbed generals
Share phone conversations with Shirley Temple,
As they tuck in all the dead and lonesome girls in Chicago,
Alone in his room, Henry Darger
Traces his Christmas sorrows:
All his fine children ravaged in his personal crucifixion,
The mute genius of the unrecognized collage
His fingertips tracing the unfixed continents
Of unparalleled girls and angels
In such hidden beauty, every movement an unseen danger,
Recording the unuttered defiance
Of the janitor’s little boy, as it was recorded,
When he beat his fist against the windowpane,
Challenging God for a change in the weather.

Submitted: Thursday, January 31, 2008
Edited: Thursday, January 31, 2008
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  • Ivan Donn Carswell (2/1/2008 3:23:00 AM)

    Bret, living with un-reality and writing about it takes a massive effort. Which you do well. Your poetic skill is demonstrably good, but the metaphor seems to be lacking a place to make a point. Accept the realms of the unreal and you've a master who doesn't accept the rules we're used to. Period. Rgds, Ivan (Report) Reply

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