Don’t misunderstand. I can be long, extensive, extending, a creation of my own hand. Tall, elongated, of considerable duration I can be. No short feature, I am a full length narrative, a plot thick in its moving toward climax. I am unending vocalise, a long O, long vowel evocative, a Wagnerian proclaiming of my own name.
I am going to great lengths. You are not getting the long and short of it. So far along, it is long only, eternally spondee. This scansion of long/long can be unskillful and merciless, like the “steady impact of nails being hammered into a board’ (says Mr. Black, teacher-of-poetry extraordinaire). But, inserted carefully, spondee now and then, what long lovely musing might this rhythm be?
Be is a slippery word. Our infinite “to be” forms and reforms itself, teasing more than Hamlet’s inquiry.
But then Proteus can be even more. Unbelievably, he becomes a long running stream. Long long ago, he becomes Heraclitean dream. Now, no matter how much we long, we cannot enter. He says we cannot step into the same river once. The ancient Greeks knew this well.
And so it begins, this end all and be all. We float in the rapid I movement, not knowing if the be longs to evoke the equal in meaning or the symbolic or the membership in a class or the occupation of a space.
And this is only the surface waving of Miriam Webster confusion, not the depths, not yet, of Heideggerian being lost in time.
Be still: Glory be, out of the primordial mist of being there is emerging a wanna be being betwixt and between. And I, I see my bride-to-be. Do not suggest that I be sensible.
Even though she is unbecoming, beyond wrathful, behemoth, armed and legged and eyed beyond belief, I be powerless to quell desire.
(“In your message you said you were going to bed. But I am not done with the night.”)
I am not long for this world.
I am only longing. With Michelangelo I swoon and sing: “Grant that I may always desire more than I can accomplish.” I yearn, hanker, pine, hunger, thirst, wish. With all of my being there is a long stirring.
And what is the intensity of bliss transforms as it yields to imputation of torture.
I am not long for this world.
Beside all this a Vietnamese monk begets a word that resounds with impermanence and invisibility.
An oasis in the being samsaric torment, “interbeing” proclaims a belonging with every between, with wave being, in every long vowel, with infinite scansion, in Protean rivers. My longing is soul spilling out, belonging to all, coming back to me, to be longing.
The chasing pirates and pirates chasing be now chastened, inter-wrapped, swaddled, entered, indulged.
My bride-to-be swallows me. I am belonging home.
— Rx is the FloridaW eekly muse who hopes to inspire profound mutiny in all those who care to read. Our Rx ma y be wearing a pirate c l oak of in visibility, but emanating fr om within this shado w is hope that readers will feel free to respond. Who knows: Yo u may even inspire the muse. Make contact if you dare.