Hart Crane Wrote to the Tune of Ravel’s Bolero
Hart Crane wrote to the tune of Ravel’s Bolero,
perhaps entertaining a notion
of disentangling from that joyous fray
the subtle caprice of passion and birth;
or meandering the wide, beguiling sideroads
of his own mind
in rhapsodic contravention of all established
principles of dream;
or perhaps seeking communion of equals with
all the courtly spirits of the dead, to prove his soul;
or to be brought closer to those destiny-annointers
identified by some as character and chance;
or perhaps he was oversexed and underfed.
But whatever the reason, it surely yielded
metaphors mellifluous, and served
to distract away those answers
persistence promised.
perhaps entertaining a notion
of disentangling from that joyous fray
the subtle caprice of passion and birth;
or meandering the wide, beguiling sideroads
of his own mind
in rhapsodic contravention of all established
principles of dream;
or perhaps seeking communion of equals with
all the courtly spirits of the dead, to prove his soul;
or to be brought closer to those destiny-annointers
identified by some as character and chance;
or perhaps he was oversexed and underfed.
But whatever the reason, it surely yielded
metaphors mellifluous, and served
to distract away those answers
persistence promised.
Silenus
Why not serve, shall we,
as sparks of eternity,
whatever else we may be said to do?
Is the World one wrinkle smoothed
after your revelations, whether born of wine,
grit, love, study, friendship, faith or deprivation?
Cooler and milder blue seasons
may not seem so distant to us now. The one who
undertakes the journey of thought does so for all.
Search your mind, beyond No-One-Goes,
beyond wishes for simple heathen wilderness, past
all the unquiet flarelets of rude autumnal grief.
It arrives. Again.
The question-form is well-worn:
-Who are you, Silenus?
-All these wind-turmoiled scatterings of self,
all these unstewarded dreamseeds.
as sparks of eternity,
whatever else we may be said to do?
Is the World one wrinkle smoothed
after your revelations, whether born of wine,
grit, love, study, friendship, faith or deprivation?
Cooler and milder blue seasons
may not seem so distant to us now. The one who
undertakes the journey of thought does so for all.
Search your mind, beyond No-One-Goes,
beyond wishes for simple heathen wilderness, past
all the unquiet flarelets of rude autumnal grief.
It arrives. Again.
The question-form is well-worn:
-Who are you, Silenus?
-All these wind-turmoiled scatterings of self,
all these unstewarded dreamseeds.
Matthew DeLuca is a poet living in New York. He is a graduate of Boston College and Fordham University School of Law.
