Friday, October 19, 2012

In the Quiet of the Noise

Wandering to and fro amongst the crowd
Of men and women gathered here I see
As through a screen, briefly, an old man; bowed
With age. And scanning once or twice the sea
Of faces with a glance I look again
To see this wizened hermit beside me.
Through the vast and noisy crowd he did wend
His way to my side. His face lit up, glee
Did pour forth from his wizened eyes of sheen;
Electric in nature could he have been
Were he not born of human frame or being.
But what is this that I am now speaking
Within my own house among my dear friends?
How have I become so enraptured by
This hermit in black garb? This thought offends
Me to my core as I look away. Why
As I search the floor for my friends I find
That they have all left my home in a kind
Of mess that never before have I known!
And as I look back to the cause of my
Distress I stutter with words of rage flown
Recently to my mind; I wrestle, fly
Higher than a kite on a windy day
Into a rage of confusion; like May
Appears to winters cold cruel hand does
This strange and decrepit old wizened man
To me! Yet as I search for words, or flaws
Within the folds of his ancient robes, ran
My mind into his; by way of our eyes
Did this occur. Once again I despise
All else in the world that is around me,
My tongue clings to the roof of my mouth. What
Is here before me I cannot tell, but
From the waves of his white hair to the holes
In the very bottom of his poor shoes,
From crooked glasses to his battered soles,
Radiates forth a peace unlike the noise
Which I did once partake in with the boys.
And though many a man may think himself
To be unfortunate to add to wealth
Another year of age to his treasure,
Well I believe they have not the measure
Of worth by which age is measured by. Such
Age is like the western men of old who
Did make a show of their skill with guns, touch
Their hands to their hat, all cool and slick. True
Warriors came as their huckleberries
And showed them to be but sad lit fairies
With illusions and tricks; but no real worth
Could be found in their bag of tricks when they
Were put up against those of aged birth,
Whose experience was a bright day's ray
In dark cloudy nights with deep brewing storms.
Such is this man in my thoughts, and the norms
By which I judged my life are suddenly
Thrown out of joint within this wobbling sea
Of youths experience. Now I desire
To burn with zeal, and to start a great fire!
Though I know not where this came from at all.
Suddenly I awake from the trance, fall
Upon the floor; realize my friends are
All around me, laughing at my fall, mar
They the experience I have received...
Yet I still have it, and have still believed.

                     In the Quiet of the Noise, (c) Luke Bennette, October 2012

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