Gericault's Letter to Nietzsche by William Walrond Strangmeyer | Poems Rethabile Likes
Gericault's Letter to Nietzsche
by William Walrond Strangmeyer
A horse is the projection of people's dreams about themselves – strong,
powerful, beautiful – and it has the capability of giving us escape from
our mundane existence.
— Pam Brown
powerful, beautiful – and it has the capability of giving us escape from
our mundane existence.
— Pam Brown
Consider how the horses live and ponder if the dreams of power justify the pain of war.
Any ethical stance is replete with its traps and with dangers to poise and pose.
A principled mind is a balancing act and can be unhorsed by random glimpse.
Like a weapon of war, a machine of nature, the cables and blood perform their charge.
Can the Lord believe in the works of our hands, in our uses of gifts we receive,
given the glory men find in joint slaughter, the devotion to the meat-making game.
Hear the high battle, view the military dance's wit and guile, feel the screams and pain.
Hast thou given the horse strength? When he heareth the trumpet he saith: Ha, ha.
Lady Butler marked the horses' naive joy as Scotland charges into murderous Waterloo.
Can vision fill with metaphor and lay the proof of need upon our thought?
But the vehicle's here in the physical real and the tenor blooms in the mind.
I begin to see the world with Rembrandt's saddest mirror and I paint it on my soul.
I know the weight and the cost of chance, encumbered onto the eye of the blind.
Horses ridden, gliding like Bellerophon from a wall in Pompeii up to Parnassus 'til the fall
and then if horse meat will not nourish, the survivors forget and there let lie.
Debts we leave in our passage through continue to haunt my life and art.
Though I cannot correct, I may still accuse, but the shadow hovers behind.
Horses lie dead on Bayeux's draped field and they lie still dead in my mind.
If only my caring could carry some weight and make it so life might be kind,
but a talker might mold the daily drill, turn aside evil with strength of mind…
Any ethical stance is replete with its traps and with dangers to poise and pose.
A principled mind is a balancing act and can be unhorsed by random glimpse.
Like a weapon of war, a machine of nature, the cables and blood perform their charge.
Can the Lord believe in the works of our hands, in our uses of gifts we receive,
given the glory men find in joint slaughter, the devotion to the meat-making game.
Hear the high battle, view the military dance's wit and guile, feel the screams and pain.
Hast thou given the horse strength? When he heareth the trumpet he saith: Ha, ha.
Lady Butler marked the horses' naive joy as Scotland charges into murderous Waterloo.
Can vision fill with metaphor and lay the proof of need upon our thought?
But the vehicle's here in the physical real and the tenor blooms in the mind.
I begin to see the world with Rembrandt's saddest mirror and I paint it on my soul.
I know the weight and the cost of chance, encumbered onto the eye of the blind.
Horses ridden, gliding like Bellerophon from a wall in Pompeii up to Parnassus 'til the fall
and then if horse meat will not nourish, the survivors forget and there let lie.
Debts we leave in our passage through continue to haunt my life and art.
Though I cannot correct, I may still accuse, but the shadow hovers behind.
Horses lie dead on Bayeux's draped field and they lie still dead in my mind.
If only my caring could carry some weight and make it so life might be kind,
but a talker might mold the daily drill, turn aside evil with strength of mind…
Comments