Conundrums

Did he have that right? Child
being father to a man. Sound, right?
But if a father is a child, pray tell:
what is a child, to be a father now?

Did Wordsworth think his ego sublime?
Or, was that a sublime ego he had?
And, if he thought that mountain grand,
and awe influencing his ego proud;

then, why, oh why, did he fall down,
seek out that golden clime
where children climb above the stars;
seek more than a child’s mind can tell?

Did he know what he knew; else
could he know only what he could tell;
and, if the ear were a knower,
did he lend ear to the natural order?

If the universe is a puzzle for the mad,
was he the quester after conundrums;
a jester of the laboring wanderers,
a gallant fool among the solitudes?

If a poem could make itself, shape
the squares to circles, speak itself
among the moving clouds of color;
would it know just what it is in movement?

  – Steven Craig Hickman ©2014 Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from this blog’s author is strictly prohibited.

 

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