The beach boys douse the flambeaux; at the tideline it is dark.
Log drums—contemporary, but no matter—thunder out
Abstractions of the storm and heartbeat, surf outside the reef,
Heights’ very sound of seismic fire. As if the drum were god,
Force creates of itself a flesh full grown: a wisdom male,
Not of the forehead but the fingertips. His two batons
Ablaze at either end, a dancer leaps in light he mocks.
You could not possibly explain to him what hubris is.
If fire is of the air, not theft but gift; is of the rock
Inside the crater as it reddens, he who masters it
Is not a prisoner, not priest. He is a twirler. Change
His sex and there is something of a tassel dancer there.
Drum major in a lava-lava, puppeteer whose strings,
Whose puppets are the fire, he is not quite invisible,
Nor would he wish to be: footlights he juggles in his hands.
Whose is revenge? If any vengeance gnaws his liver out
It’s that of rum. Not, though, just yet. A torso’s fabled ease
Reminds us that the will and vision of the primitive
Can be taught nothing by the stroboscope. The torch outspeeds
Its own blaze. Orbit of our vanity, the fire goes free.
In figure eights the orange salamander bites its tail.
Full circles smooth and feather. In their going, coming flame
The dancer freezes in his postures speed makes vivisible.
Greek fool, fool of the Renaissance who huddle by the lamp,
If lava grips who uses it, it is no eagle’s claw.
It is an Oversoul in pleasure taking back its own.
Prometheus in Polynesia
Did you enjoy the the artible “Prometheus in Polynesia” from Turner Cassity on OZOFE.COM? Do you know anyone who could enjoy it as much as you do? If so, don't hesitate to share this post to them and your other beloved ones.
Leave a Reply