Usurper

merely for His banquet…


It came in no time and
it came from no space;
sure, not from Infinitude:
He… - and who knew why? -
was quite simply hungry,
and found naught to eat.
Hence, formation of Being:
skies and celestial bodies.
stately forests and oceans,
fruit producing orchards,
beasts,
dreams, man and Word
best and worthy. On Earth,
all was ready apace, and
so refined! rarity oblige!
He scented the perfume of Life
(thus blighted in bloom)
destined to His banquet… then
hunted : rapacious, fierce -
and all creatures yelled,
packed the space to parry,
meditated, moaned, or cried -
Yet it all came to naught, for
He now scented death as
He wolfed down the ceasing world.
And was sated.

Quote:

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Originally Posted by Bar22do

merely for His banquet…



Yet it all came to naught, for
He now scented death as
He wolfed down the ceasing world.
And was sated.

---

I think this ending makes the poem

Pendragon: the whole existence for one gross gulp... these final lines came as of themselves... thank you, Haunted Child.

This is quite an interesting poem. I find it quite intriguing, though I didn't really get it until the last few phrases.

What a thrilling work, and very well-crafted.

It certainly doesn't evoke any sort of pleasant feeling, but is full of feeling, none the less. It's frightening, and makes me feel very, very small.

thanks a lot skib and lumière - the implicit idea (or, rather, a question) in the poem harassed me until I confided it to writing, I too felt very small and insignificant... thank you

ah yes, the poem describes a feeling which the greater part of humanity seems to be living by. brilliantly constructed and conveying a powerful idea: the definition of original poetry!

MGK: thank you for your comment, I am grateful for your appreciation and that you caught the essence of the idea... it's encouraging... thanks a lot!

Bar,
What a beautiful piece. I see in it God creating all for the satisfaction of an appetite that, like time and space, appeared from nothing, and in the end returns to nothing. We, in his image, share the appetite for all his creation. We are such curious creatures that we must know what (exactly) is on his menu. Well done and thoughtful, my friend.
Hack

hack - thanks a lot; I was indeed speaking of a god, but of one who sort of forced himself between Creator and world... and whom we mistake for God and follow in His greedy path (which thus condemns us...), in short - evil moulded god... I wrote a whole series of poems on the subject... I may post one more another time - be well and write!

Bar,
It is perhaps telling of my pessimistic attitude toward humankind that I ascribe the gluttony you speak of to man, though you meant otherwise. I read the poem to be an insight into the rationale of Gods creation, his appetite to create a universe beyond the possibilities of our understanding. This countered by mans rapacious need to see, know, and own God's creation, as though it were his birthright. By doing so, in essence, swallowing it whole, without remorse or anything approaching understanding, only morbid curiosity. Man hanging on the edges of that creation and dashing in to steal what he can, like a jackal between lions. How fortunate that we are made in his image. Poetry is steered near and far of its mark by the experience and prejudices of its consumers.
Thank you my friend
Hack

Poetry is free forever and belong to the reader... I love mankind and man's genuine search for knowledge, there is a lot of nobleness to it (are we not in the "likeness" of the Creator", whatever it was that showed up with the very first "Bang"?...), provided man learns to illumine, not to burn... in my views, Intelligence has that role - to make the world fully manifest to all; misuse (abuse!) of intelligence leads to oppression and suffering and death... but it all id an endless discussion and, after all, the colour of our views depends on our moods, not only on what we sense or know...
PrinceMyshkin wrote in one on his very good poems here (and I hope it is alright to quote him):

"One man wrote because his heart was broken
and he hoped to mend it, a little,
by crying out injustice and his
intolerable pain.

Another man wrote
about joy, transcendence, love,
which he wanted to make a gift of
to all the world, but

it was the same man,
writing the same poem."

Writing this you must have felt fiercely inspired. What a vision!

Firefangled: yes, fiercely and angrily inspired indeed... thanks for your comment.

Bar,
My allusion to humans having been created in the image of God is facetious. I think that proposition is, fortunately, an uniquely human conceit. Like Mark Twain, I believe it to be *** backwards, if the truth could ever be told. I would venture that it is no mere coincidence that we consider ourselves closest, in body and mind, to the creator. If, in fact, we are made of the essence of dead stars, as science would suggest, perhaps our closer derivation lies nearer to them than to our mutual creator. If forced, by temperament, to worship, I choose stars.

Thank you hack for you comment, we can continue discussing on PM if you wish... I only wrote in favour of man, or Man, more victim than origin of whatever is evil, which of course does not free him from Responsibility. Man incredible mind (yet to be fostered) applied to the service of life would for me be the only option for worship... (so that that vision of my poem never be reality)