at river's mouth, under the red
lighthouse, uninvolved witness to
the slow unfurling from the east,
another day, like any other,
destiny borne to spread its
indifference across the sky -- the
river slumps harborbound while red-
bellied gulls circle overhead
like some great pagan wheel, as if
some eternal message can be
divined in their mockery, the river
pushing, insisting its vagrancy
everywhere.
How appalling, then,
to be reading Matthew Arnold--
Matthew Arnold of all poets!
Might as well read Arnold the Pig
or Arnold Schwarzenegger!
This is a darkling plain right here,
the river, the sky, the dying stars,
the sun crawling through slumped clouds
and consciousness. You cannot hear
the rumbling of stones here--the
crashing of waves--there's no Sophocles
or Sea of Faith here!, no great thought
or myth, no blood-drama, no goat,
no redemption, just these speechless
facts, the lighthouse, the harbor
glimmering copper, these gulls
caught in the tragic flight of time,
the slumber of water, the
pale phenomenon of light
dividing facts from shadows.
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