I am not a poet, whatever my delusions to the contrary, albeit I often comfort myself with the thought that I at least “have the heart of a poet, if not the voice” (Dickinson, I think, issuing what we call, in our country, consuelo de bobo, ‘idiot’s consolation’). However, like ‘most everyone else I’ve written verses on everything from romantic love to despondency (though no one else, I think, has written a dirge, as I have, on a bout of, to be very indirect, “uncomfortably unschedulable enterological functions”–I can almost hear you saying ugh!).
Heavens, I do talk; but, anyway, I’m posting here another poem I wrote during one of my oh-so-routine fits of devastating depression. I called it, very grandly, gehenna:the stars are dark on crimson sky the moon is black the sun is red the valleys wilt the rivers dry my body walks my soul is dead my soul is dead i cannot feel the dewy touch of early spring not midday heat nor falling snow nor autumn cold i cannot sing of loss or joy or share a smile all love or hate is gone from me i call the void i dwell in i for what have i forsaken thee