it is all too much
a poem written to pass the time
This is all too much for me to take.
I feel it all—
forever and unrelentingly.
An urge to write, to express—
in short: a poem!
A thing of no great merit, for sure.
Let it be forgotten forever.
Yes, let it die with me like a dream,
a fact known only to me.
So many claim this art as their own;
so many fools there are in the world.
But this is all to pass the time—
a thing we have too little of,
and know not its use,
and care not to know,
and care, in fact, to forget.
It is a burden anyway.
The times have never shown glory to the thinker,
and I scarce think it will come in my lifetime.
So... let it pass and be gone—
to dust, like us, forever alone.
Consistency is such a trick of chance.
From whence does it come,
and where does it go?
Forget it now—the thought is too much.
Like I said, I cannot handle it.
Forget the past and tradition.
Only in the present shall we be—
think, feel, love, hate, die,
and pass away.
One thought to the next—is it not?—
with such ferocity does it all come
upon us, with no end, care, concern...
even meaning?
Is that even the right thought to have?
Ah—there it is again. Forget it.
There never was, nor has been, a "right thought!"
Tradition is dead, remember?
The postmodern age
is the air we breathe.
We are such stuff as feelings and facts are made of.
To say otherwise is to deny sensation—
to mock art, and to mishandle life itself.
/
Enough with this or that concern.
I can no longer bother with this or that
"noble sacrifice."
All I ever wanted was to know all—
that, however, demanded too much—
and so I carved out
what I could from my superiors,
satisfying myself with fragments:
truths stumbled upon alone.
The mark of genius is not conformity
but ecstasy—a lifelong dialogue
about "the good," "the noble," and "the true."
That is truth itself.
Too long my heart has hummed
its sad melody—no span of time,
however vast, could ever lull it to sleep.
(Not that sleep comes easily anyway.)
There's beauty in birdsong,
in the rising sun, in passing thoughts...
in silence,
with no one around—not even myself.
That is the good, you know? To be lost!
Not to seek, but to see life as mere
journey, path, way, road, stream, horizon, edge—
one grand cycle in the end.
What divides also separates;
what unites creates harmony.
Ride this out as if it mattered—
as if logic governed all,
as if understanding were possible.
Thought alone makes it true
when life is examined.
The variety of experience is its beauty,
just as all writing improves
when the author lacks pretension—
that desperate need to appear smart.
So too with life:
It need only be lived
with its brevity in mind.
Days will pass without remark,
and every youthful face will fade
like leaves torn by harsh winds—
falling to earth as petals,
yet feeling like bricks
when they strike the ground,
awakening some youth's memory:
"Remember the leaf,
for you too shall fall one day."
/
Remember, remember—it is all too much.
Too much to handle, to care for, to worry over,
to think about.
It matters not. Or little. Or at all.
To view the plains is better
than to read of them.
So too this life: my own story—
to be lived and felt,
bound only by my capacity
to feel and to think.
I ignore the best on principle.
To bypass all indifference,
to become my own prophet.
Who is bold enough to judge?
Whose conviction springs from truth alone?
I dare say: no one! None!
All is but air—opinion and hearsay—
when it comes to feeling.
"Critics of aesthetics"—
a contradiction in terms.
Let my own wisdom
be the only truth.
I never saw knowledge
as means anyway!
It was always the end—
the absolute, the sublime,
the beautiful, the good,
the truth!
Not for livelihood,
but for life.
Enough babble!
Let the birds sing in peace.
Go, sleep,
and return rested—
with wiser mind
and opened eyes.
This was but to pass the time—
which is, of course,
my own representation.