SmokeLong Quarterly

The carriage approaches, draws near where I stand, its wheels binding in the rutted road, its great pale horses straining to pull it onward. What strange solidarity summons me here to await its occupant? This man, richly steeped in King James English and Euclidian geometry. A parallel of structure, an architecture divine. Attired in black, stiff funeral wear. Summoned to provide over a people’s sorrow. Such a long, long journey it seems—from Cooper Union to Gettysburg. The sight, and scent, of lilacs, blooming mockingly in the sunlight. O Captain, my Captain! What kind of leader is this? He has come not to bind but to cleave and to rend. Brother against brother, father against son—master against slave. And here stand I, poet and madman; white garbed, bearded, like a bard of ancient and forgotten days; or a Judaic prophet, too fresh from the mount and the whirlwind and the ineffable I Am, standing here the fool, as he nods solemnly and his carriage passes me by, bound for summer haven.