I, POOR SAMSON
I , poor Samson
Torn and ‘tween
Taught Strings and My Delilah.
Blind, I’ve seen the holy sheen,
I, Shorn but lean
And desperate mean
My holy might I stir
The strength to fall those things unseen
That promise of some righter thing:
Old hideful joy’s beguiler.
Where is the holy anodyne,
For this self-sterile creature?
I cannot find an anodyne,
Purge nor evisceration
To expel or least curtail
Our self-wrought separation.
Some say Saviors, some say wine
Some solemn dedication;
These I’ve tried in vain and pine
The swimmy bliss of drunken lips
Ends with waking self-reflection;
The cracked entrance of God’s great hall
Reminds me of my imperfection.
Like an eel between the hands
In murk and muddy waters,
Like a diamond in the sands
And like a lamb to slaughter:
When I think I’ve got a hold
You make my sureness swift unfold
And break the bonds, I, furtive, solder.
FROM AN AERIAL
Swirling, writhing, smell of swamp
And fish and excrement,
Emitted from half-solid forms that
Ejaculate, yet aren’t content.
Every man could be another,
Every woman any’s wife.
Were one to know not what was passing
One might think to call it strife.
Up close one sees the shiny semen,
The wincing of the eyes,
The frantic thrusting of the men,
The screams and moaning of the wives.
From afar one sees a web
Of interlocking limbs,
All seeking repose from their burden
In some crevice made of skin.
All organisms formed,
though be they self-contained,
Do choose or are compelled
To play this fecund game.
Without a thought to God or Law,
Yet with the utmost faith,
Our histories are but the trappings
Of the propagation of the race.
Hadden Elms lives in the mountains of Far West Texas. He is a graduate student reading history.