Romour has it that I harbour capacious plans,
that I want to write a poem
to end all poems.
They say I'd want it to be as clear as the purest
of whiskied, Highland streams,
as practical and as concise
as an exponential logarithm.
Deep as the deepest of wells,
(if words can be profound),
yet capable of being divided
by everyone who reads it.
just mark my metred words!
It will be fillled with sentiment
but far below its surface
it willl boil and simmer
in a covern of unconcealed, funtional hate.
It will make its many readers
purple with indignity,
it will shout and rant and rave
as its subtle undertones revamp the deadened heart
as its hissing assonance
seduces and entices
like Salomne,
the inimitable, cardinal Whore.
It's artful smiles
will convert all the believers
to believe in something else.
They might be moved to bury all their books,
live tomorrow yesterday,
or recall how it once was
to walk in their own footsteps before the silver dawn.
Perhaps,
they will hear Voices, echoing familiar
as though they once heard
or as if they once resounded
to another Stranger's tune.
Rumour has it that I'm going to write a poem,
a mammoth, an epic,
it will scour the land
and drink the seas,
it will purge like the kindest pogrom,
beat like the fastest clock
and its Skeleton keys will play on penny whistles
and lead the erstwhile children
to their Hamlin, once again.
It will shout itself out loud
in the darkest, Welshest voice,
it will drive the crowds from the stands
and it will listento its pleas.
Romour has it,
it will bring them to their knees.
It will empty out the offices
watch all the bankers
desert their desks,
looking for oases.
Can you believe it?
They've all left notes which read,
"have gone to listen to the sound of running water,
in a youthful, ocean brook',
or,
"have gone where silence rains
upon an untouched field",
or best of all
"I'm going to watch the barren ground
as it thirstily laps its tongue
like a dog lost in te Simpsons,
conjuring mirages."
Its content could be anything,
Dylan, Rimbauld, Bach,
its rhymes could glow and whisper
like some occasisional piece by Mahler
and contour like imagined flesh
that the sculpter
carved from stone.
They say it'll take me years
or even centuries
but when done,
there'll be nothing that compares.
It will outphase Hallelujah,
and feast the Fatted Calf,
it will make the Holy men rise up
and the venerable laugh.
They'll be enough in it alone
to power all the Arts for milenia to come.
It will sell ten billion copies,
double the Bible,
triple Agatha Christie,
and get the edge on Shakespeare.
It will put the publishers out of business
"What a poem!", they will mutter under their astute
and business-like chins.
God knows where they'll go.
Romour has it that I'll be the last to know,
that it will sneak up on me
when I'm looking for a metaphor
and paralyse my typewriter.
It will occupy my mental state,
usurp all that is mine,
it will give away the sectrets
of my Buddhist frame of mind.
They say it will be a bloody siege,
this time, the last
(for sure).
It will burn all the bombs,
dismantle all hate,
put governments and politicians some place where they belong.
By some vast, ingenius decree it will find a way
to make us all the same.
There won't be any colours
on the faces and the flags.
It will show us we're alone,
give everyone the facts,
discard the universal
alibi.
They say, for once, we'll learn from our mistakes,
it will teach us how to live,
it will sanctify our lives,
it will bury all the burdens
dissipate the axes
it will tell us all the things
that we've never dared to ask.
It will give us numbered answers
to anything we fancy.
Rumour has it
that I've always had it in me
but my childhood
didn't want to let it go,
though now that I'm free
there's no way I'll be stopped.
Within weeks I'll be the Osiris of the Modern World,
judging the dead
surveying my Kingdom
adressing the multitudes with
Isis on my arm,
and who could ask for more?
Rumour has it
that I'll be starting work quite soon
but I'll keep it under wraps
'til the last word has come forth.
Perhaps, they say, it will do a lot of good,
though there are some,
(there always are),
who say they're not quite sure.
It could be a mistake!
Romur has it that I might be lead astray
that even when the deed is finally said and done,
when my hands are once more free,
when I'm unbound and abandoned,
that the task may have consumed me
leaving nothing more to do.
There are some say it's impossible,
for I'd realise its worth
but there are others who are doubtful,
they worry for the Future
and on occasions
they've heard it said,
heard it whispered,
muttered,
mumbled,
that I'll burn it out of spite.
