Poetry

A poet is an unhappy being whose heart is torn by secret sufferings, but whose lips are so strangely formed that when the sighs and the cries escape them, they sound like beautiful music... and then people crowd about the poet and say to him: "Sing for us soon again;" that is as much as to say, "May new sufferings torment your soul." ~Soren Kierkegaard

In my unhappy state, I wrote this poem:

The Honourable

Tonight,
I leave for the House.
I leave to dwell among wolves and sheep.

O Benevolent One, Patriarch of the Tribe,
I pray for courage.
Courage
To resist bribes concealed in cellophane bags.
Courage
To resist the advances of Assembly sluts.

May I not forget the Tribe.
May I not forsake the Tribe.

O Benevolent One, Patriarch of the Tribe,
I pray for power.
Power
To survive the assassin’s bullets.
Power
To survive the heat of impeachment.

O Benevolent One, Patriarch of the Tribe,
I am on my knees.
I have been on my knees.
I, the honourable.


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