Poetry That Wouldn't Pass a Breathalyzer: "Judgment Cometh To Ye"

Judgment Cometh To Ye

A Poem by Jeff Campagna

The eve of judgment cometh, men of men, women of women, all ye be judged in death as ye judged in life.

Two men sit astride in blue,

..One with a cane and one who,

Has a hat that rests atop,

..His homely face which cant' stop,

Spying the cane in the hand,

..Of the man who starts to stand.

In this room which little fits,

..One now stands and one still sits.

The man who stands reflects his past,

..And how long he hath come to last,

In a world where evil and good,

..Are by all men misunderstood.

A fortune made, A child lost,

..Both by his hand, but at what cost?

The same hand which now rests atop,

..His golden cane, his body's prop.

Ay! This man cared little for few,

..And thought he above all ado.

But those for which he did so care,

..He did so with a silence ere,

He could tell them he did so feel,

..Those emotions he did conceal.

For this man wasn't bad straight thru,

..But things good aren't all that accrue.

The hatted man now stands as well,

..And his modest past he dost tell,

With tear in eye and heavy heart,

..He claims to be a man apart.

Nary a fortune did he make,

..Nor a life did he ever take.

Though one life he did throw away,

..And let his own life go astray.

A friend or family he had not,

..But to love himself he forgot.

So idly through life he went

..With self lament, and did resent,

A God who didn't seem to care,

..Or listen to a poor man's prayer.

His life stood between right and wrong,

..To neither camp did he belong.

Like pillars of stone they stood,

..Pondering which of them would,

Be called through judgment's door,

..To see their life's final score.

Both men were in life not wise,

..And thought soon all their lies,

Would be buried in the fine,

..Sand that sprawls deserts of time.

Much to both the men's surprise,

..There was no God in the skies.

Just an office stark and plain,

..With a clerk who did explain;

That religion mattered not,

..And any God should be forgot.

But no man escapes the day,

..When those who judge have their say.

Two men stand before a judge,

..Both overcome by begrudge.

One whose life was up and down,

..One who wore a poor man's crown.

The first pleasure and strife knew,

..And failed not to throw askew.

The second knew depths and thrift,

..And did squander life's true gift.

This the judge did declare;

.."Both of you are now aware,

God is not the judge of you,

..But a board that does review,

In living what you did show,

..And in death where you must go.

Both of you can rest assured,

..The worst of it ye have endured."

written under the influence by

jeff campagna

My Obsession With Words and The Endless Search for a Muse

I feel homeless, lost in the haze of empty words. Why must a muse be a woman? I have found love, but with it, didn't come my muse. 

Let's start with my biting obsession with words, obviously of the English origin. It's a recent thing. Since I started actually reading to be specific. Until about four, maybe five months ago, I hadn't actually read a piece of fiction, front to back. Hard to believe? It is for me as well. Sure I fought through Bill Shakespear in high school in an out-loud class setting, and before that, even lied through many a book report in elementary school. I would read the first page, and the back cover. Then I would pick a few lucky pages from the middle, and with them, I would formulate the most asinine, but seemingly believable essay. After high school I would read a few self help books, which did little but manufacture a raging inferiority complex.  Long after, I would fall into the blind oblivion of creative commitment and the art of story telling. So, I went right to the source. The Novel. 

I picked up "Barbary Shore", Norman Mailer's second and relentlessly critically panned novel. I hadn't read "The Naked And The Dead", which separated me from the majority of those who had read Mailer. And thus, I had nothing to compare too. So, as a result of that naivety, I quite enjoyed "Barbary Shore". But, not for reasons one might imagine. In point of fact, I didn't even really comprehend the story, partly due to my limited knowledge of world politics, past and present. But, what I did enjoy were the words. I'll repeat; I enjoyed the words. The way he used words to explain things in such an eloquent, poetic and descriptive fashion. The way he manipulated the English language, as if it didn't own him, he owned it. 

Since, I have been through other Mailer books, even read Faulkner and Dostoevsky. And let me tell you, I will never, ever, turn back. At this point, it isn't simply the words of authors that bite at my mind. It's everything. A traffic sign signaling construction, a salon advertising services, a radio personality pitching a new single or even the man behind the counter at the gas bar. Why did they choose the words they did? What drove them to do so? How did those words find themselves in their vocabulary. Do I know these words? Should I know these words? Could I use them better?

Most of the time, when this obsession with vowels and syllables strikes, it's due to, if not Mailer, a film. And not just crazy elusive works of John-Luc Godard or Andy Kaufman. It can be while watching pop like "Definitely Maybe" or "Enchanted". The words they use. It makes me want to use them too. It makes me want to create. I want to have the same fun and the same liberty with the English language that they had.  I boil with desire.

And like many artists, I need a consistent vehicle to translate those very desires into works. Or do I? Do I really need a muse? Would Woody Allen survive with Scarlet Johanson? Would Lennon have written the things he did without the presence of Yoko? I have often yearned for a muse and never been given one. Often they are women but such is not the case for myself. I have found the love of my life, she is everything a man could want in this world, but perhaps not everything a writer could want. This has left me searching for a muse. And, in fact, I am infinitely relieved my love is not my muse, because as I migrate further and further down the rabbit hole, she would soon become more a muse than a love. 

But, I am left with a sort of disconnect. Every minute of every day I am compelled to write. Not a dream of mine. In fact, I was always a very poor reader and writer, and, in my opinion, still am. I had tutors, special education and even extra curricular 'English-as-a-second-language' courses. But, it's a force I can't ignore, and until it leaves me, I will accept it. The disconnect being, a constant influx of inspiration and content but with no muse to transport it to the fleeting masses. Obsession is the gasoline to which I have no vehicle. 

Forgive the grammar and spelling, I am into a few.

writing under the influence,

jeffc