Under the Volcano
for Malcolm Lowry and other
less sensitive searchers
there are still mysterious fires
burning under the crust of the earth
still uncharted underground rivers
unplumbed and unguessed depths.
the surface of the earth
still calm and unrippled
uninspired in flat continuous plains
or gentle hills and puny mountains.
the only hint of inner mystery
being the occasional fault or rift
(all hail St. Andreas, haunting millions)
though like all faults hidden and surface clam.
dare you ponder the mysteries
in search for life under the volcano
will you disturb the placid crust
risk the journey to the dangerous core
perhaps it is best
to leave what you can't understand alone
leave those inner fires untended
and endless rivers flowing.
the painter stares in the mirror in his studio
bare stripped to heart
sees beyond the reflection.
naked and tense
awash with colours
the lines of his description elongated.
the world and the stars stretch him taut
in his passion and fire
close to breaking.
what is my mirror
where can I be reflected for knowing
in crowds endlessly swirling
see a thousand faces that are my own
under the stars am I reflected
against the backdrop of darkness.
I walk through the world
alone but never lonely
watching
any freedom I have I earned
any trap I have found I have made.
when I walk through city streets
winos and bums ask for my money
always polite but never ashamed
there is mysterious union between us.
words are my life and make me nervous
talking about what I know leaves me witless
drained of energy and gasping for breath
I am calm but struggle with volcanoes
the forests and hills are my home
I never go there.
the words of freedom are on the tip of my tongue
surrounding the page, holding the pen
love and work have brought me to the edge
there is always danger of falling.
I am learning to walk softly
I want to love the flaming volcano
with words I cast a shadow
there is an angel in my madness.