Sunday, October 8, 2017

A warning from the Author : The Surrealist Poet as Art Exhibit

Anyway here is a poem found recently composed about a dozen years ago which the author's publisher refused to sanction . October 7,2017.

                    A warning from the Author
              The Surrealist Poet as Art Exhibit:
              after abandoning poetry and art


At Café Apollinaire the Surrealist Poet
after he and the Café
had become too well known
asked a sculptor to make a statue
to take the poet's place at the café
at intervals of each day
to give him some respite
a life‑size manikin with moving parts
like mechanical over-sized dolls
of ancient Persia
to sit at the corner table
by the window overlooking the street
in the Café Apollinaire
with all the paraphernalia
associated with the Surrealist Poet
resembling the poet in every detail
fooling many newcomers to the café -

The new and improved 
Mechanical Poet of Café Apollinaire  
sitting there with a cup of coffee
a cigarette which one hand lowers
to an ashtray then raises to its lips
takes a puff the head moves looking
out the window turns again
with a pen in the other hand
moving hovering above
the open note book waiting
to be written upon
surrounded by stacks of books
borrowed from the Public Library
just around the corner
of artistic movements
all those 'Isms' born
in such a brief span of time
from Impressionism to Expressionism
to Pointillism Vortexism
to the wild Fauvists to Dada
to Surrealism to Cubism
to Futurists  and Realists
to Photo‑Realists Pop art and Folk Art
all at war with one another
all claiming to be the true voice 
of Modern Art
each a genius of one sort or another -

all these works of art 
music and poetry
words and paint tossed about
biographies and autobiographies
passing the time giving some solace
to the Surrealist Poet soon wears thin
no end to naive idealistic romantic poets
artists soaring above mundane concerns
dipping pens brushes     
in the same well of inspiration‑

til history intrudes upon the pastoral dreams
and fantasies of the romantic surrealist poet
opening those all too real books
opening Pandora’s Box
unleashing the Furies
of the tragedy of humanity’s
pride and folly
of the triumph of tyrants 
despots emperors kings and queens
destroying in the name of God
power and greed
enslaving millions 
to perpetual poverty
as the high and mighty
rule the world
with an iron fist
the boot to the throat -

Visions of the horrors
of social histories and aesthetics
the admixture of politics and history
centuries dripping blood
idealists and romantics dying for some cause
failed revolutions
and the horrors of war
religion and science run amok
our dreams turned into a world of ashes
under ten thousand mushroom clouds
while thousands are tortured murdered
beheaded blown to pieces
strapped to the mouth of cannons
in the name of this country or that
in the name of one God or another
while the Angels look down and weep
as all these lost souls strike the drums
sound their trumpets of war
leading the Big Parade of millions
into the slaughter houses
and other persistent visions of madness
til poets and sages take refuge in the wilderness-
Now the Surrealist Poet
having abandoned poetry and art
having abandoned cooking word stews
for the Beggars' Banquets
is able to roam
about the City's streets
no longer chained to that Chair
that Table holding court
pestered by would be poets
taken in by his self‑manufactured mystique
forced to dredge the sea floor
reliving his life for their distraction
edification & inspiration fulfilling his role
of poet laureate of the oh so cool crowd
at Café Apollinaire‑

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