IT IS WRITTEN

 

 

You can divide a room in other ways too.

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By handedness, eye colour, hair, ear lobes...
On and on in ways to amaze
The cat fanciers and those who go to the dog show.

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They go sometimes in pride, with vanity,
To compete to the top of the heap and
Always with love, some kind of love, or so I hope.

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Try then birth order first, Perhaps best,

Maybe worst.

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They all come with stories Of familial interrelations Standardized

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Like constellations amidst Invisible roads between Higher magnitude stars,

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Dysfunction maybe, maybe platitudes, In form eternal it seems somehow When placed in view at altitude.

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What smudge of Pleiades down from Aries, itself topped by Andromeda, Draws a line to the rim of the Big Dipper and why does the Great Square of Pegasus run east from Andromeda too?

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Try then who was born and conceived In peace, in war, or in one after and
In the other before.

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Is conceived in peace and born in war One less worse than war and war?

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You can divide a room however you choose Think, believe and are told to do yet
Every room’s empty
In a century and a few.

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Maybe it’s a place
As old and wise as anyone knows Yet still,
Where the young always go.

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DYLAN

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Things get a bit hazy in the eternal interlock Of time, place and persons
To say nothing of other beings,
Call it all species.

 

Vague personal garbage, in and out, messes with memory, Memories, regrets, failures, lost loves, lost chances, lost or missed, Such fears and harsh reflections
Get in the way.

 

Try remaking the new day,

Setting it right,
Try all through the day and Over the night.

Someone said they cleared out the shed after you died, dear Dylan, A voice in Laugharne hotel bar,
The authority of the memory of the bonfire.
Who? What? Why?

 

I don’t know, I can’t recall and does it mean anything?
Did they think you were crazy, ahead of your time, something else? Dangerous? Bad example? Gossip on.
Who knows?

 

Did Merlin meander and tread
The hollow tiles and sounding walls of Carmarthen,
Walk counter-clockwise amongst the churchyard dead
Asking for assistance and begging pardon for the disturbance?

 

Are there those who rest in peace and those who are ready? Don’t ask about the overlap or spend too much time
On the cursive celtic design.
No one owns do.

 

Be called into service, call it belief or Something of kindness and concern
For the youngest, not of age and unready, and

Be not necessarily ready.

 

Maybe lose everything and
Start again as the day returns and turns around. Who knows, who can say?
Hope to find a kind of grace.

 

Is there redemption and renewal on the journey, The pilgrimage from place to place, and
Shalt thou not be fattened for slaughter
By the praise.

 

Where the time sound of find is found, you dear Dylan, So the story says, claimed a record
For most whiskey or was that
For most misery?

 

Revelation, Korean war after the war, the Spanish war and The war to end all wars before –
Had you had enough, needed a door, just turned thirty nine? Who knows, who can say? The worm is here to stay.

 

Was the love gone, was the guilt for cheating it Not believing it, needing it and not seeing it Too much?

 

The needing, bleeding child

Lost in an adult shell? This world gone to hell.

 

Health shattered, failing down a lot,
Failing and flailing, trying like a man in uniform
To make a delivery – “You know I work for TNT” – Changing something,
Milk wood not wormwood,
Peace.

 

Far from your home in Laugharne
Maybe wishing it was a May day Friday Not November in old dirty New York City. Too much, too many, most times in poverty

 

Dark necessity, Unready Maybe now Rest in peace.