Song of the Bottomless Lament (Based on the poems of Neruda and Lorca) by Martin Willitts, Jr. 1, The days bring dust to my doorsteps and no one else’s doorstep. There is nothing but a moan of trust left. I can sweep fruitlessly and never clean enough. I might as well gnaw on my bruised knuckles. This is a village of despair. The winds knock ruthlessly on our locked doors demanding what they cannot have and refuse to turn away to leave us alone. The women are deaf with crying immense dryness. Their lips are chapped and bleed white carnation petals. When they tilt their heads in their old knowing ways, their bodies portray more than innocence or guilt. Men who should known better, do not. Men who should be ashamed of their failure do not admit willingly to such things and deny them. They move about as if nothing was wrong with the way things are. Such wrongness is unbearably wrong. There is not any absolution for a place like this. Someone should do something about this before it is too late. Certainly someone will notice that this is all wrong. Silence is a careful thing full of frantic stillness. It moves within everything. It hangs in the dust. It sneaks pass the barriers, sliding under skirts. It dwells in the man dragging his feet in shame. 2. I am one of those men. I hate to admit it. But there I am, I am a man pocketing shame & regret. I am in dust, smothering words. The lament means nothing to me. I can go around ignoring it. I can ignore what I want without pity. However there is another part of me, sobs endlessly & piteously for the loss of myself, for the unwillingness to do anything. It is like I condone what I know and accept the unacceptable. I brush my teeth with this humiliation. I dress myself with embarrassment. If I remove my work-boots & find blisters, it will be of my own doing. If I spit out disgust and not wipe myself, then I deserve to be treated with disgust. So if I must speak, I must clear my voice like I had swallowed polluted waters. I must denounce loudly what needs denouncing. I must shout as if loosening gales of crows. 3. If a lament is not deep enough, then it is not a lament at all. If it does not burst out of you in a torrent, then it is not a lament at all. If you do nothing to improve the world, then the lament is not a lament at all. If you think that you should do nothing. then do nothing and lament not at all. If on the other hand you find lament is a sharp stick you must do something. If nothing else, break it. Martin Willitts, Jr., has a print chapbook, Falling In and Out of Love (Pudding House Publications, 2005), an online chapbook "Farewell—the journey now begins" (www.languageandculture.net 2006, in archives), a full length book of poems with his art, The Secret Language of the Universe (March Street Press, 2006), print chapbook, Lowering Nets of Light (Pudding House Publications, 2007), an online chapbook, News from the Front (www.slowtrains.com, 2007), and an online chapbook of haiku with his artwork, Words & Paper (www.threelightsgallery.com 2008). He has also edited a poetry anthology about cancer, Alternatives to Surrender (Plain View Press, 2007). Previous  Home  Next