☆ Poetry: a bracing antidote to weary cynicism
Maurice Leloir, Three Musketeers, 1894. Public Domain
Is there a moment when you have just rolled your eyes too many times in a particular 24-hour period while reading local media? Peter Coe Verbica, former Board of Equalization candidate, reminds us—in a fine bit of poesy—that running against the tide, challenging orthodoxies, poking the bear, standing up for fairness, and mixing metaphors with abandon can be, well, a whole lotta fun. An Opp Now exclusive.
“Stand”
Prepare yourselves!
You pugilists!
You knights!
You knaves!
You swashbucklers who laugh
like madmen at the grave!
Whether you draw a sword,
Whether you draw a breath,
Whether you draw a line,
I urge you to take a stand
with a musketeer,
armed to the teeth,
armed with enthusiasm and irreverence.
I urge you to take a stand with Dumas,
that writer who gets away
with wearing floppy hats,
gets away with adolescent flourish,
and interlopes
with loose words and looser ladies.
Raise a glass to Dumas,
whether it be full of warm beer
or cold well-water,
Raise a glass to the man
who wrestles the dull to the ground
and emerges a victor.
Keeps us entertained,
takes us on an adventure,
teaches us the camaraderie of:
“All for one! And one for all!”
Let us take a stand with this man,
in the battle between
that which comes and goes,
that which is raw and that which is polished,
Let us push the tables over
and side with him,
draw our rapiers,
and defend the paupers rather than the princes,
the creators, rather than the critics.
Perhaps in the ruckus,
we will resolve the neoteric with the nostalgic,
bring cheer and glory
to both the sons and their fathers.
Stepping back and then forward,
let us parry —
for who knows what will enter our heads?
Perhaps
we will think of the Greeks,
who were more comfortable
baring their teeth
at the gods;
the mob punished these mortals
without pity for their heresy;
broke the noses and arms of their statues.
Severed the stone hands and heads.
Left them to lie, toppled in the grass.
Abandoned their scrolls to rot unread.
We have our paler tales
of taking on the Divine:
Jacob who wrestles with an angel,
or Joseph who must vie
with God Himself
over the affection of a wife.
Let go of this mud.
Leave the nets, the fish and ethereal
for the temporal.
Let us give it our all.
Let us bring out our horses
from their paddocks,
dust off our shields and bows,
oil our saddles,
shine our stirrups
until they out-gleam the sun.
Let us leave behind
the smell of urine upon the straw,
and work our way
through the sentinels of rocks,
into the open air.
Let us lean forward and
gallop through fields,
hip-high with grain.
Overhead,
hawks like time
wind and unwind in the currents.
Let us gather at
the feet of trees
with their carpet of ripened fruit,
eat dried meat and
conspire for the sake of our souls
to lay siege upon the ordinary,
assail the gray with
our sharpest arrows of gold.
Let some of us rise above like Dumas
and be extraordinary.
Bow your head to the man who
resurrects the passionate and the pastoral:
sends down a bucket
and pulls from the deepest reservoirs.
Exhume Dumas!
for his very name means
“of the farm.”
And when you compete,
whether you draw your sword,
whether you draw a breath,
whether you draw a line,
take a stand as a musketeer,
my brother!
Let women miss you and let them weep,
as you march forward,
armed to the teeth,
as you stand with Dumas,
as you stand
with rapier in hand,
a man.
Read more from Verbica, titled “Lamentations,” here.
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