Polita v. Poetria

          "I rarely buy a newspaper, or vote.
           To do so, I have learned, is to invite
           The tread of a stone guest within my house." -- James Merrill

Defeat needs no narrative, for its shrieks

Seem self-assured, like a victory smirk;

The vanquishing king just lets them speak,
Not out of mercy but an inner strategy

That is only as brilliant as it leads
To surrender, and how they never know

The end before it arrives. The politesse
Of luring the hordes to your side …

Are not the stratagems of poesis,
Which all take place in the strata of loss

Where the mind that can make anything wrong
Can no longer swipe at light like a moth

And dare to be right, its sincerity enough
To make the journey virtuous.

It’s up to the heart now to withstand the plot
And to feel its way through the characters

It cannot help but to have turned into,
Knowing, somehow, it has wronged, but turning it

To the good, as the pain recollects
In empty chambers, sounding out the end –

The tragedies after they’ve made the rounds
At the parties and tugged whatever strings

Pity conjures become invisible
But still have a form – call it transcendental.