New Selves For Mihaela

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.... * * * * *