The Poetry of World War IV - 6

The Poetry of World War IV - 6
Christopher Bogart

3.
Quietly he sits
On the side of the hill
Like a wolf upon the steppes.
He watches the world
As it ‘rounds and ‘rounds,
A circular life
From shore to plain,
From city to town,
Watching the horse on the carousel
Prancing down to the water’s edge,
And splashing, lemming-like
Into the sea.
A horrible thing for a child to see-
A hopeless dizzying carousel,
A whirlwind of humanist animal life
Swirling down an eternity.
He looks transfixed
Upon the scene
Self same upon the hill,
Self same within himself.
Confused from without
And within.

4.
One thought.
One thought begins to grow,
Projected on his tender mind.
One thought begins to build and grow
Like balanced, columned, pure white temples,
Like gothic spires vaulting high,
Like great cathedrals, domed and strong.
Like towering palaces, gilded gold-
One thought.
Soon followed by another.
This one built both great and grand.
This one built of awesome power.
This one built of frightening might.
This one moved all life to see.
This too carved in majesty –
Then nothing.
Nothing but the strength of stone,
Nothing but the height of clouds,
Nothing but the light of millions –
Stars upon his tender mind,
Gleaming brightly, turning ‘round.
He lifts his soft and feeling hand,
And stretches his palm to face the sky.