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Edgar Lee Masters
To be able to see every side of every question;
To be on every side, to be everything, to be nothing long;
To pervert truth, to ride it for a purpose,
To use great feelings and passions of the human family
For base designs, for cunning ends,
To wear a mask like the Greek actors—
Your eight-page paper—behind which you huddle,
Bawling through the megaphone of big type:
“This is I, the giant.”
Thereby also living the life of a sneak-thief,
Poisoned with the anonymous words
Of your clandestine soul.
To scratch dirt over scandal for money,
And exhume it to the winds for revenge,
Or to sell papers,
Crushing reputations, or bodies, if need be,
who am I
to live in unity
denying all the others
we carried with us
the mask remembering
things acted years ago
in my sleep
I work to begin
the making of me
out of dirt and morning,
a face of water, an old mask
of my father’s, and three
or four discourses
for children.
Another thin dinner to heat—
few know the full mask.
Some jeer making a common count.
To see so little
is one of the greatest arts.
in a house without power
the sound of the wind
appliances have stopped humming
chargers no longer glow
the masks on my walls stare
steadfastly into the darkness
i offer myself again
on the altar of sleep
He asked me politely, ‘ Do not write
All these sob-stuff, write about happiness’.
I turned further morose when he said kindly
‘Regret I cannot take anything away
From what you write’.
Rummaging through my trunk
I retrieved my faded, forgotten mask
Of good cheer.
Clasping it over my face
I felt good, looking in the mirror
Because I was grinning
From ear to ear.
But then, queerly, the reflection
Had empty sockets
Where my eyes should've been.
Being flawed,
It's only human.
So alien are those,
Who have no compassion.
Commands should be followed,
Because of respect.
Not a deep fear,
Of becoming a reject.
Fairytales end,
With a happy pair.
But all hearts will,
Continously shed tears.
Endings can never,
Truly come.
Until I'm below ground,
And life's finally done.
One, maybe two,
Hands moving themselves,
I'll do a few.
A crimson trail,
Of lines inflicted,
By my past.
A long sleeved jumper,
Averted eyes,
False smiles.
A mistake,
A forgotten memory,
Shouldn't roam.
I tell myself,
Repeatedly,
I'm just alone.
Don't talk,
Breathing is necessary.
A vital role for our survival.
Inhale, Exhale.
Breathe In, breathe out.
Living on the other hand is
Optional.
Although, one might even argue
That by virtue breathing is living,
Hell I'd be lying if I agree;
For example, someone who's lying
Brain dead in a hospital bed and hooked up to a machine is breathing.
Is that in any way living?
Because even if I'm breathing,
I might not be living.
I might not be living because I might've been dying.
I might've been dying becauseI have had it;
Three kids…
masks
just part of their play
Sat still his whole life…
at the last second–one arm
closer to the stars
Marchers gone home…
I watch steady storm spatter
take the concrete
Tenth week of the plague…
they pull down their masks
to talk over the dog
Beard to his belt
and one black boot halfway
onto the bus
Autumn of the heart…
if we’re all dead, who takes stock
of the curled leaves?
Lightbulb not like dawn,
March,
forgiven sins at last…
a roast beef sandwich
At my death…
will even the wasted time
comfort me?
He speaks to me
in the dreams I don’t have
until summer
The Air Force man
holds a sapling, two feet
from the root ball
Thick thud,
the cooper’s mallet–
so much sleet!
March…