Frederick Pollack
The Burning Spear
Throughout his twenties, the infinite
possibilities and, just before
or among them, effort, danger
(to which he had in theory no objection);
as well as dubious, sardonic
looks from no particular source, which were,
by their own lights, supportive.
Then at thirty, recognition of
too-lateness, and the exhausting effort
to ignore it; false starts (all starts
being false), an unconvincing imitation
with less than youthful energy
of the experimental folly
of youth.
Succeeded by decades of
analysis, with, however,
no anticipated synthesis or clear
assessment of sources or source
(how could he presume?); no reliable
spirit-guide but many inhaled
and ingested spirits.
It’s possible that we are merely
a delivery system for
metaphors; and his, picked up
wherever but seldom
emotionally foregrounded, was mica:
shapes and mysteries
thinner than any blade.
Or else for dream-narratives, which
in our time correspond
to cartoons: the wise man,
of no determinate creed, on a mountain ledge
under mountain skies, who would never
dismiss the panting seeker
with a curt “Waste of air.”
