New Selves For Mihaela Poem by Daniel Brick

I am not a poet if my words do not evoke
an echo from the labyrinth of souls.
Vyachevslav Ivanov

And so we sit
in envy of our former selves,
revolving in our wounded minds
the steps which brought us to this
impasse, wondering can we free
ourselves by ourselves? Or must we
wait for some promethean rescuer
to hear rumors about us and arrive
in his own time, however tardy?

How long ago did you see a shooting
star? Patience or impatience mean
nothing in the vast cycles in which
we are meshed. You can breathe deeply
and cry out your desires in poems, and
perhaps that shooting star will alter
its set course through space
out of sympathy for your plight?
Or perhaps the summer nights

will stretch themselves below the moon
on their own accord, and give us
three more hours each night in which
to paint time passing Prussian blue.
I am troubled by such deep despair
that made me begin to write a novel
in a room accumulating dust and darkness
when the Muses had sent word from Parnassus
I am required to write an epic poem.

Have moonlight and starlight led us astray?
To whom have we been listening? Casual cynics?
The hoi poloi? Or simply random passers-by,
who toss a coin or two into the tattered
black hat set at the edge of the curb?
If one should trip and you break his fall,
that will garner another coin or two.
Nothing more is to be expected of
ordinary men, slinking home in ordinary light.

In your recent dreams you have seen
a mixed chorus assembled on the middle rung
of a ladder to the moon. They are poised to sing.
Oh, why not speak those golden words your soul
has nurtured for decades. Your speech is already
halfway to song! Are you not ready yet to open
your throat and release suddenly that song
which longs to swell in the open air? Is is not
for this performance you have tempered your voice?

I have wandered across the green earth
for a thiusand years. I have sat in absolute
solitude for a hundred years in caves
of the southern hemisphere. I have forged
pathways through dense jungles, and
descended a raging river in a reed boat.
I have climbed mountains, while eagles harassed
my ascent. Once Leviathan blocked my passage
across the sea. And only once did I abandon

my voice. It was a year-long desert crossing
in a large caravan. Thirst compelled me
to remain silent, and it quickly became a habit.
When we reached a caravan serai by chance,
I had grown familiar to silence without and within.
Now we two sit side by side in the green air,
our journeys stalled, our quests defeated. You have
gently coaxed forth my voice, and the blessed words
we speak is our sweetest solace. Have not the Muses

even now poured soft dew and sweet honey
on our tongues and lips. I hear faint stirrings
of a spiritual conversation among souls scattered
everywhere across the plains of this world. You hear
them too. And the mixed chorus have descended
the ladder to mingle with us in the soft grass. They
sing in a language we are just beginning to understand.
Let us listen before we speak again....
* * * * *