Day 1 - "Our given right"

I thought it appropriate on Day 1 of the first '31 days of poetry marathon' - the real 'ground zero' moment of this blog, essentially - to post a poem that I just wrote in the past 48 hours and to set the stage with something fresh and potent from my library. It's one of those poems that's written in the heat of the emotion that inspires you - a feeling that you really have to grab onto before it's gone. I've retooled it a bit since then, and I think it stands pretty well on its own. I hope you enjoy it, and here's to a successful 31 day run!


"Our given right"


Like a day eclipsed into the night
What passions, fancies, or hopes we might
Are quickly snuffed out or brought into light
Depending, of course, upon our given right

For some are drowned and silenced straight
While others seem to fill their plate
With finest garb and ornament
As muted ones must find content
In scraping from their crude extent

Though some may call it outright shame
‘Twas us who invented this execrable game
And carved all the pieces and painted the board
Always holding the dice, and then, over which, lord
While crafting the rules that the pawns must obey
As the round is reset, much the same, everyday

And I wonder about, if a tale needs be told
To make this just claim stand as clear and as bold
As one that’s been carved into unchanging stone -
If so, let this short whim of such truth well be known:

While many dreamed of splendid schemes
And clever dances, well-laid scenes
The bric-a-brac of tit for tat
In gaudy salons with Siamese cats
There were others bleeding in the streets
And laboring to bring these fetes
About for those ones, full of poise,
Who sat and marveled at their joys, complaining of the outside noise

And still they labored into the night
The day removed, but not the plight
And weaker still grew their resolve
As problems still remained unsolved
But never were there answers, “No, no -
Heavens no, what mean you this?
You really thought it would all make sense
And divvy out some recompense?

Your folly was to have played at all
And to believe those feeble wooden walls
Held boundaries up twixt you and they
Who held your greatest hopes at bay
With coffee spoons and idle chats
In silken suits disguising rats
Oh don’t you see, my dying friend –
There’s naught for thee but bitter ends!”

Though never did the bleeding streets
Hear any of this prophet’s speech
Because the prophet missed his train
On mere account of half a brain
For who can present such lofty things
While watching for what hour rings
And chimes upon this spinning ball
No genius bears that wherewithal

So there, sitting in the Clair de Lune
Among the tools of labor strewn
As sweat was chilling in the breeze
That blew too late and gave no ease
The labor sat and never mourned
For never knew it, the day it was born

That it was meant for to suffer, and then die with a smile
While the spoons in the coffee clinked away all the while

And now, at the last, do we wish it not so?
As the end of our story has come and must go?
But ‘too late, too late’ shall be the cry
When the man with the omens has long passed us by
So let thee well remember these words made immort
That speak forth the curse of our selfish import
Like a day eclipsed into the night
What passions, fancies, or hopes we might
Are quickly snuffed out or are brought into light
Depending, of course, upon our given right


- Joshua Clarke