This was inspired by Paterson, by William Carlos Williams, which I have been reading, but it's dedicated to the memories of all of the early twentieth century artists who struggled to come to terms with the end of the Enlightenment.


The Regenerated Limb Always is Smaller

It was enough, back then, to peddle feverishness,
Given the loss of faith, peculiar thought,
In the power of reason; so much, suddenly,
Not at all what we had hoped it would be,
Our place in the universe slipping again,
Science in service to meaningless slaughter.
Measured lines of linear narrative, proven
Inadequate, frayed and fell, leaving the ones
In the water adrift, and drawn, as they shrieked,
Ever farther away. The villagers packed up
Their lunches and left. The shriekers, out of
Sight of shore, slipped under the waves, and, in
Their wakes, fakes, well taught to mimic the
Feverish. First comes tragedy, second farce;
Progress replaced by “new and improved.”
Mind your manners. Get your grant.
Peddle facsimiles. That's enough.



Poetry by Lawrence Beck The PoetBay support member heart!
Read 15 times
Written on 2011-11-27 at 14:28

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