Revolt of the Villagers

Through the bushes
I saw the villagers shaking the poem trees,
Dropping the eggs of the unhatched new poets
Into the dusk of history.
Peripherally I can remember now--
The reason that I came was to expose,
To bare the clumsy words
Heaved upon these parchments
That with years have
Become so sullied, so devoid
Of life and meaning
Like the remains of some
Prehistoric birds.

I know now why the villagers
Slept in these tombs,
With snouts turned to stars
With a strange sheen of oiled muscles
And all the blinding brilliance
Of academic brains now turned to mush--
I've tasted this modern music
Of consonants turned to vowels
Like this bread, still warm to the touch,
Like this juicy leg of chicken,
Today they say that pop is the illness
Of the culturally challenged,
Nay, I'd say, today it's culture--
So soulless and barren
That my eyes seek other splendors,
Other vistas, other joys.

In countless years of pilgrimage
I found nothing of any lasting value,
Nothing to quote in my drunken rage.

Yes, fools, beware of the villagers,
For they will rise and burn your lofty mansions
And those timeless works of art,
Erected for your egos,
Exalted by The New York Times and Yale Review--
The academic supermarket of published vanity
And vanity unrecognized--
This too will see the vacuum of day,
No matter how you spread the butter
Of subtle images and witty metaphors,
The truth beyond all words
Burns in the hearts of lovers,
Who have no time for pompous language games--
And when your greatness is cremated
And forgotten,
That's when the true discovery begins.

 

                                        May 28, 2001
                                    --Alexander Shaumyan