A poem I wrote while thinking about the lost statue, “The Poet at the Gates of Hell,” now known for just it’s center portion, The Thinker.
As I sit thinking of Rodin’s great statue,
The Poet At The Gates Of Hell and bards since past
in battle with follied madness—in length
and breadth at their obligations,
I too sing fortissimo at the soldiers advance,
at drums beating their muse in the fields of the dead:
the clomping boots mid-march to claim new land,
the menacing certainty of blood spilled,
the dangers hidden in the advancement.
Revolution most grand I chant,
vive la révolution, vive l’esprit de l’homme!
Underneath the concrete and glass skyscrapers weight
I’m certain that spirit and advancement endure,
gathering light at its edges as if perfume
suppressed, supine along the floor
waiting for some fortuitous windfall,
to turn silver droplets from Katy Perri’s Plastic bags—
The restless mist that goes out at evening
and plasters itself—to the Iphone’s glow
at parks and while glued in theater seats,
the mist that pins itself to the floor
or gives its momentum up to hissed dogma
underneath the concrete and glass skyscrapers weight.