Alan Botsford – Ⅱ
After Reading Dante
(20 years later)
I
paradise, Dante taught, is a parade
you wished like hell you could join, and did,
were the footfalls and children’s voices enough
to send you reeling back to that essence made
real again, made contact with not later than imagined
nor in some parallel world but right here and now,
fertile with the riches hell offers you, that you would
do anything to accept, knowing your share of it
is your life to be transmuted, lifted into this light
burning with all the shame of its wanting to be felt,
scene of a tortured making made to daimonic order
where likeness is a picture met in the infernal mind
that, helpless in its obsessions, aches for you hereafter
II
with enthusiasm
unwaned, uncurbed,
he climbed out
of being
taken in, shrugging off
the slashed future, the withering
squalor of the past– adversity’s
sacred limits—to catch
a glimmer
in a net
of looking, raised from
the debts
he swims in, family and all,
for a definition
changed (loud and promised),
a patch of the possible,
a glimpse, warm and whole, of
that rising, that hard-to-miss
glow of evil
riches no more saved
than spent
in what the world means (or would mean),
words found flowing
into a next nature, one sound
at a time, like a prison break
from subterranean oneness
to variety’s paradise, home
to a nudge of wonder
dripping enchantment, gleaming with
once upon a rhyme.
III
To live absently in the present sometimes,
waking up in tree-surrounded spaces which
like the dark wood you thread yourself through,
to make fellowship with green and grey too,
colors a spectrum settles on in a blue day,
absent the stars at night, clouded over by
whatever happens to be missing, like who
you would be or have been during the climb
up this hope you hold onto, a laddered way
you have of living in and out of your dying
to know what comes next, past the future
thought of as a dream you’d be willing to have
all over again, were it not the same in the hours
you spend waiting for the path to lead you
back to the ongoing change, long and memorable,
that nobody else but you is present to,
now that you, having come this far, can accept
the height and depth it shows, minus the mountain.