All That Can Be Done Poem by Etienne Charilaou

If I could offer you one thing,
what would it be?
What would make you happy?

We can only give our heart,
To be trampled on or not.

Anyway, anyway,
I suppose I've had my say.
And when I go away,
these words may stay.

No great display,
I do regret, but
Shakespeare I'm not.
But maybe that's ok.
With words I play
to while away, to help you in the way.

What more can I do?
I need an idea or two.
But I expect you may be
As tired as me,
perhaps as free.

Odd world!
What are you there for?
To inspire poetry?
To care for?

Some say: DNA.
Pass it on.
It's all you're here for
so don't be sore;
just do the chore.

Do I need to tell you
how lacking in poetry that is?
Poor souls! Such poverty!
Such lack! Fight back?

It comes to Nothing, it seems.
The ‘todo y nada' of St. John of the Cross
(whose works I have not even read!) .
Nada! Nada! Nada! In ecstasy, he said.
You can only hope to experience
his blissful nada.
It's not what people think; it's not nothing!
But there's no convincing some.

The final words: a struggle!
Just place one here,
And place one there.
Complete the square.
Ah, life's not fair!

Would that I had been musical!
Words seem small and mean
in comparison, as Beethoven knew.
‘I'd rather write a few notes than 10 000 words! ' he said.
Me too!

The time passes,
and the activity changes.
Blue mountain ranges:
Everything good is distant.
Heaven seems far, your happy fulfilled existence
unapproachable - also because your life is now,
and can only be now. The future perfect arrangement of things
is the dream; that which you long for but never get.

With a bit more wine,
would my words have been stronger?
Would it have loosened the tongue of the muse,
to let drop pearls and emeralds and jewels?
Instead of plain-spoken, small tokens.

Make me a beam of deep blue light -
Indigo pure and good,
to bless, to be, but not to feel -
for I feel too much, and it costeth me dear!

Sometimes, I wish: take me from here!
I can no more; it is too dull a place
for spirits to abide; unending insults,
assaults to breach the hallowed castle walls.
What if I fail!
To ashes burned, fallen, wrecked, unsalvageable,
forever and ever….

Fear is so unbecoming!
Begone that foulest of things!

I've gone on too long…
Reaching, like Kafka, and unable; thoroughly unable
to put it down - the thing, the Very Thing -
Impossible.
Too bad.

We are ‘born free' - no!
Triteness.
I have never really felt free?
Have you?
I think so long as the body is,
you can never be - not completely.
But wrong I could be, for was not Buddha,
enlightened and free?

Damage not your mind with too much thinking,
even on these subjects of great importance.

Everyone leaves you high and dry -
it cannot be helped, that is life, after all.
Why can't I have a shining moment:
true greatness and inspiration supernova-ing,
for once outshining the other lights of the galaxy?

I shall stop.
I must stop.
I will stop.

For that is all I can do.
All that can be done,
by anyone.