BLOG: Poem-writing as procrastination

Still unwilling to commit to a novel or script (because PANIC), I went back to a little poem I started a while back. A friend of mine has been getting a full-back tattoo involving a bizarre setting and a diverse, mismatched set of characters and (jokingly) suggested I write a poem telling the story. I didn't take his suggestion jokingly. Here's the first half of the poem, all but the first stanza written this morning.

The dust that lined the desert floor was cracking from the heat,

Where rats and toads were scared to go and lizards burnt their feet,

A thousand miles from blade of grass or cloud to block the sun,

The outlaw walked relentless with a hand upon his gun.

 

He’d been accused unjustly for the slaying of his girl,

And fled the law while hunting down her killer Robert Earl.

But long ago he’d lost his prey and left the law behind,

So on he trekked to nowhere, thirsty death upon his mind.

 

He feared to die, since dead men can’t seek justice for their strife,

So muttered he reluctant prayers that God preserve his life.

But he recalled his whoring ways, the blood upon his hands,

And knew he’d hear no answer from the sky that baked the sands.

 

His legs gave way beneath him and his face met with the ground.

His raspy breaths drew in the dust; there was no other sound.

The rage enkindled in his soul a desperate, hopeful seed,

And downward to the earth he screamed “oh Hades, hear my need!”

 

And Hades came a’walking as by stairs beneath the dirt;

His face was ghastly white but all in darkness he was girt.

He cast a cooling shadow and he smiled with demon glee,

Then deeply hissed: “I’ll hear your plea but nothing comes for free.”

 

The outlaw raised himself - he’d never been the type to bow -

And said “A jug of water would be precious to me now.”

No sooner had he spoken than did Hades reach below,

And ladled up a portion of clear liquid, cool as snow.

 

“This is the water of the Styx, the river of the dead.

It will sustain your journey to a place with food and bed.

But one day you will die and on that day you’ll come to me;

You may bring one possession but your soul will not be free.”

 

The outlaw took the offered cup and drank without a thought.

“I’ll come to you most gladly, my revenge no longer sought.

And as for my possession I will surely choose my gun;

A violent soul I’ve been in life and shall be when life’s done.”

 

The water gave him strength to walk a dozen years and more,

And one by one he found those men on whom revenge he swore.

His gun put each one in the ground, repayment for his girl,

But always just beyond his grasp was coward Robert Earl.

To be continued, eventually.