Pyrrhic victory
When I was a baby in the cloth
My victory lay beyond the cloth
My work was in the mountains
And my path unending in the horizon
While I lay to lullabies and flies.
My victory would surely be then
Beyond the dark of my eyelids,
Swaddle-cloth and purple dreams
But he seemed to be laughing
Sarcastically at my victory thoughts.
All this was his sarcasm, showing me
Who wore the pants in the world
And his little drama unfolded outside,
While my mother’s hand rocked
The baby –me in swaddle clothes.
It was as though there was no victory
Only a humiliating seeming-victory
In the toothless gurgle of babyhood.
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Poetry based upon actual experiences, not one thought up in the intellectual aridness of a pseudo-thinker. Words as they mean in the specific context of recollected thought or image , not meaning several things at a time but that which re-creates an aura or a haze of an earlier experience.
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