Passed Through the Fires
Passed through the fires unknowing this the heat
Unanswerable; the conflict and confusions matter
Nothing, smoulder inexplicably. All cautions,
Alarms, stand unapplied, no needs-for felt,
For basement footing, handles, steering bars
Might counterweight, reduce downgrade the consternation
Misplaced before the fact
Hardly act one begun and we yet very young
Are running in the green fuse all day long; our salad days
Fern hills where wears a patent powerful intimation
Figured, imbibed, envisaging what vintage
Of fruits; what inclines nimbly sprint one’s thought-meadows?
Wide-eyed surveyings stemmed by late betrayings
Of coming latter ages entering uncommended
By majority bears discovery a wandering wide
Down shore among full shoals of dear fraternities
Comforting level landscapes, ambled paces, clement weather,
Whether or not one’s face, one’s forced good temper, fits
Pitted and pitied in one loose reckless game
Of restless ardour, serving hot, stirring endeavours
Beyond, within the mind
Thus fire by fire creates its light, flares conflagrations raised
Drawing up all inside them, set to sear with high redoubt
All aim at object. Listless subjects walk the barefoot coals
Hoppers pour hopes out, aspirations; ventured vapours vowed
Dispelling all temerity; and gone’s concession, just one’s wits’ estate
Rattling an iron gate
A cinder, or an ember, something shrivelled, atrophied,
Smouldering half-spent curled easily like a scimitar
Rough dry reduced remainder of no flame outrunning
All but in dreams expended,
Salted to suit the proffered expectations
Tinctured on truth to activate with passion;
As raw as sore
Every way suffers compromise, and oneself the tempter,
Victim and instigator, opponent and defence,
Caught in a vice of body-pinching gripes and pines
Reaching beyond all mortal test, bequeathing little
Finely enough that workmen warrant it well-done;
Willing, but evil is fishing wiles to sell and soil integrity
Foreclosing against the grain
In-passing, whilst walking Purgatory, see one’s neighbour, tip one’s hat,
Greeting good-day, making a threadbare goodfellow salute
Scraped of nice quips once clever, flashy; of acute endeavours
Looking hand-plucked now, like a prepared chicken,
Roast in intemperate fires, a serving on a platter
Bearing of patient hecatomb, a scented savour, fat oblation;
One’s recompense trusts ploughed-in, late wagers on close of play,
Attest combustion
You can also find this poem at our metanomalies blog: http://metanomalies.com/passed-through-the-fires/
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