November 2020
Robert Wexelblatt
wexelblatt@verizon.net
wexelblatt@verizon.net
Bio Note: I’m a professor of humanities at Boston University who misses live classes though not commuting, parking, speaking
through a mask, bi-weekly Covid tests, or leather shoes.
Author's Note: The title of “We Lead Three Lives” alludes to an old TV show but hasn’t anything to do with it. The poem is a reflection on the model of the human brain as three brains: an instinctive reptilian complex under an emotional limbic system beneath an occasionally rational neocortex.
“An Unreasonable Poem” may be unreasonable but it is sincere.
Author's Note: The title of “We Lead Three Lives” alludes to an old TV show but hasn’t anything to do with it. The poem is a reflection on the model of the human brain as three brains: an instinctive reptilian complex under an emotional limbic system beneath an occasionally rational neocortex.
“An Unreasonable Poem” may be unreasonable but it is sincere.
We Lead Three Lives
Elsewhere it’s true nature never leaps and nothing comes from nothing only down here utopias can spurt ex nihilo from a cornucopia and divers insisting on their right to gravity will splashlessly land where we have dreamt of a pool or lake thus making is not is with unhobbled playfulness juggling all four elements to suit our desires elusive nymph and tree salesman and bug we shuffle physics with fatality bent on meaning and gaiety of heart Lucidity that is as good as French relished while reclining on a bench idly feeding pigeons, toting up the crowd parading primly by, is neither loud nor argumentative, each small insight an aperçu whispered to the twilight, for this world’s poison the sovereign serum pure as the Pythagorean Theorem proving itself. A trim neo-cortex is fit for calculus though not for sex, a let-there-be dividing light from dark, the music from the motions of the park. Down below the routine pyrotechnics of climbing in and out of queen-sized beds, out and into jeans, life ticktocks with the apatheia of a Stoic’s heart, the stupid detachment of a bomb that while we are otherwise engaged may strew archetypes across two intersections, three counties, one green desk blotter. With Love and Strife unreconciled Empedocles dove into Aetna’s fire; so bubbles and froths the subcutaneous life where dreams are forged, hammer strokes to shatter all our plans.
Originally published in Descant
An Unreasonable Poem
I would like to be surrounded by happy people. Well, perhaps not altogether happy. Steady happiness can make one dull, shallow, insensitive. So is what I really want to be surrounded by people who are worthy of happiness? Sadly, such people are seldom happy. In fact, it’s their wretchedness that makes them deserving of happiness. Think of Dickens’ ill and hungry orphans, or pestered Penelope waiting on Odysseus who must also suffer his way to their reunion. Abraham’s most Abraham atop Moriah, not two weeks later on a tranquil Beersheba night, dozing contentedly before his tent after the fires have been banked, the camels seen to, Isaac laid to bed.
Originally published in Eunoia Review
©2020 Robert Wexelblatt
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