PTSD in Ilium
Come, Lethe, draw me down into your dreamy deep,
That I might clear my mind before I go to sleep.
And bear me to the cave of Hypnos, where, it’s said,
Nepenthe can be purchased from the thriving dead.
You are the fairest daughter of your mother, Eris,
So lie with me, dear girl, where nightmares shan’t ensnare us.
Dysnomia and Ate you’ve made me forget,
But you have many siblings whom I haven’t met.
If any of these others pull their dirty tricks,
Put in a word for me with your grandmother, Nyx.
The Old Poet Comes Clean
Though day by day our worn-out joints grow stiffer
And mornings tend to bring more aches and pains,
The thing on which opinions always differ
Is how the mounting years affect our brains.
Just speaking for myself, it happens often
That I forget to turn off every light,
Which doesn’t mean I’m ready for a coffin,
But only that I hate to say “good night.”
As compensation, memories are thick
And long, and dominate noetic space;
Deep-rooted words flow easily and quick,
To generate poetic lines apace.
A poet’s job is building measured stanzas
That one may hope will stand the test of time.
It’s not immodest to expect bonanzas,
As long as one employs explosive rhyme.
When we were young, we thought we were immortal,
But now we know for sure that we are not.
Before we exit through that final portal,
We pray that nothing good shall be forgot.
C.B. Anderson was the longtime gardener for the PBS television series, The Victory Garden. Hundreds of his poems have appeared in scores of print and electronic journals out of North America, Great Britain, Ireland, Austria, Australia and India. His collection, Mortal Soup and the Blue Yonder was published in 2013 by White Violet Press.
“PTSD in Ilium” is a brilliant display of Greek names beautifully sprinkled into your artful poem. Nyx, the goddess of the night/darkness and offspring of Chaos is a great ending. I share your sentiments embedded in “The Old Poet Comes Clean.” I have a lot more for which I must account. Loved both poems!
The names of Greek personages I dropped, Roy, could be considered pre-Olympian divine entities — ancestors of the pantheon of gods we are more familiar with. Though I love to embed “strong” sentiments, my feeling is that your account has been settled, as it is with all or most of us, long ago on Calvary.
I’ve always said it: K.A.N.D. But Kip Anderson can also be frightening. Really good poets know not just how to delight and amuse us. but also how to harrow our souls.
What did the Scot Dunbar say in the fifteenth century? “Timor mortis conturbat me.” That’s what I felt when I read these two soul-shattering pieces.
Let not your soul be harrowed or shattered, Joseph, but nonetheless memento mori.
I enjoy how “PTSD” moves from pseudo-Homeric loftiness almost immediately to a sense of intimacy and levity. The personifying divinities here are not mysterious, powerful forces, but relatives and in-laws. The satire is effective because it achieves its effect through subtlety.
“The Old Poet” is another autumnal, introspective work that highlights how memory’s value increases with age, and how that value is redeemed through poetry.
I didn’t realize that I had done all those things, Adam; mostly, all that stuff just happens. And I think you’ve put your finger on what’s valuable about memory. What the hell is it, anyway? It’s just there, with us always, and one of the foundations of meaning. Think about writing as the material manifestation of memory. This is one of the reasons that persons who want to remember must write.
“The Old Poet…” is simply perfection. I like the mix of masculine and feminine rhymes, the bittersweet sentiment. Definitely an anthology worthy poem. It also prompted me to look up “noetic”.
Thanks, Cheryl, for recognizing virtues that your own poems instantiate when you are at your best. I hope you will treat us to more quintillas in the near future. I loved the ones you published here several months ago. And here’s to noetic notions!
Loved “The Old Poet Comes Clean,” C.B.
Very relatable!
I’m glad you could relate, Paul. Do you have gray hair too?
I love both of these!
Then, Cynthia, take them home with you and feed them fruitcake.
If you take them home with you, Cynthia, feed them fruitcake.
The final stanza of The Old Poet Comes Clean hits hard. At a certain age we’ve all seen untimely death and the effects of time on an age-ravaged brain. Fearing the latter can become obsessive.
Paul, you’ve made me wonder what a timely death would look like. When it’s time to go, will I know it? Though it’s possible to get a new kidney or a new liver, new brains are hard to come by.
Wow C.B, you have so perfectly captured the angst of the aging poet’s mind in “The Old Poet Comes Clean”:
“Before we exit through that final portal,
We pray that nothing good shall be forgot.”
Oh, how I worry about this as well! Will the good of our lives (in this case, our poetry) be remembered after we are gone?
Thanks for giving voice to the inner thoughts of us “old poets”!
This is why it is good to have published at least a couple of books. Bound paper artifacts will remain for your survivors to discover. As for being an old poet, it happens that, as a poet, I am only a bit more than twenty years old. It just doesn’t feel that way, but I have better things to worry about.
Very, very good CB – the rhyming is particularly skilful, tricks/Nyx, portal/immortal, and I think the final line, not … to … forgot pretty sublime in its sad, fragile manner. Excellent poetry.
Honestly, James, I don’t give half a fig what future generations will think of me. Give me the roses while I live, and put everything else in the compost pile.