Philosopher’s Progress, The
Martin, Charles
How wonderful! If only we could stop
Here on these verdant isles-Isles of the Blest!
And, like the Sun’s immortal horses, crop
The tender stalks, undriven, unpossessed;
-But this is not for us, not ours to rest
A moment even, for it seems that we’ve
No sooner touched upon, barely caressed
One yielding surface when we’re made to leave
For yet another. Some of us believe
That our universe had a Designer
Who moves us toward some end we can’t conceive,
At ever-greater speeds-here let me linger
For just a moment underneath that arch,
Upon this bridge, before the next forced march
-But no, not mine to pause, pausing’s forbidden,
And whether we move on of our own accord
Or at the hest of purposes kept hidden
From us, we do move: motion its own reward,
Though there are others; we are rarely bored,
And not for long, with always something new
Presenting itself as not to be ignored,
One further prospect, vista, scenic view
For us to dwell upon while passing through;
Beyond the declivities, a gentle rising
For we ascend as we go forward to,
Until the path breaks up into surprising
Discontinuities, a sudden crest
That we’re swept over, and we come to rest
Nowhere, precisely. Neither here nor there,
With one hat on and one hat off, askew
As to one’s four-in-hand and boutonniere,
And mumbling to ourselves, how live, what do,
Slowly begin to stir ourselves anew,
Righting as best we can the biffed and battered;
Will we succeed this time, will we come through,
We ask as though the questions really mattered:
Some deity or other will be flattered
By our prayers, but for ourselves, we right
The wronged, heal the sick, collect the scattered,
Brace up the many, and at first signs of light,
Return to where we start back toward the top:
How wonderful! If only we could stop.
CHARLES MARTIN’s Starting from Sleep: New and Selected Poems will appear in July from Sewanee Writers’ Series/The Overlook Press ….
Copyright Hudson Review Spring 2002
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