Poet's Duet Poem by S. A. Crawford

I became a poet
to save my life.
Had no choice,
God made me do it.

The present chimes in—
And
"Take it back! Take it back!
Undo this. Change it, Change it! "

On my knees,
everything's my knees;
my knees, my knees, knelt,
kneeling—on my soul.
It wants, wants to scream-
but

I've been there before,
crushed, breathless,
crushed breathless,
drowning,
hopeless.
But this, this. This is...

Human nature is beseeching, howls for awe,
yearns eternal magic to—spring alive. Lively.
Thing is, when it's real.
Thing is, when it's real
there's no trick at all.

Back then,
twenty-something then, destroyer of dearest everything I was—
Therefore,
Dearest Destroyer,
The universe, my world, our world, whirred, whirled like—

Thing is, when it's real.
Thing is, when God speaks, speaks to you,
touches, touches you—literally.
Literally—
better yet, go awe an atheist. Tell ‘em,
tell ‘em—all this.

Thing is, I did. Am.
Am—
I couldn't then, crushed breathless
at twenty-seven. Then thirty-three. And thirty and eight, and
and then,
then, on a day just like this

I could write, really write.
Now, well, ruler I am of ruling years, decades,
And—
and if my now eyes howled panorama wet,
What Orchestra—Oh, what Orchestra!
piteous scrapes, melodious
melancholy; skins would jump off bones,
queens their thrones,
and this misshapen coral king drowned in rivers reversed to sea.
But Lord I want to—
Please! God let me.




If I were only my needs. If I were only my needs,
we would this be writing:
so we, beat on boats against, the current borne back, ceaselessly...
Outta tune?
Who asks, is asking? Wise Edmund, Sir? Or, Fitzgerald?
I'd be playing plagiarism but black keys lay deferent calls and bellow;
when it's real, thing is
above below:

Say it. Say it right to
Lord's face, all like—superior.
Say it. Say it, You!
"Beat on boats, beat on boats..."
Sing it, play how coral king would:
"Trident, Trident, you once music made. And now, silence."
Sing it, play it, howl like Langston J. M. Hughes would to
cooks, warded looks and brokeback, old crooks,
and violent ship sinkers—
And blood, bone, skin that, misshapen,
jump in (final. final—hopeless. Final. Final—Breathless)
finality's breathless last heavings deep-drowned
amidst most silent song sang from most foreign, unsound tongue.
See, sing it here: laughers, laughers, infinite laughers.
It's the least funny thing I've EVER heard.
EVER!

Listen.
Listen, carefully.
I'm no coral king
but can sure create a riff:
"wet bones, wet bones, wet drowned bones jump in skin."

If I were real coral king,
I'd swim downwards to my shapely knees, speak,
"Right there!
Right there too. Oh God! , everywhere, they're everywhere."

And? And you see:
it's not so funny playing plagiarism.

Now listen,
told you I've been here before.
The divine present chimes in again.
Ceaseless, —
Better yet,

"Impossible. Impossible! "
Impossible once the sound of a voice
begging, crying, screaming
salted waters beyond knee's command:
"Take it back—Take it all back."
"Take it—"

When it's real
the thing is,
it sounds just like—
But this—THIS!
crushed breathless.
Told you.
It's not funny playing plagiarism—AT ALL.
No. Not at all. Not on your knees,
choicelessly begging,
only to become what's necessary
just to stay alive.