The Old Mime
Created | Updated Jan 28, 2002
A poem..
THE OLD MIME
The old mime drew his name,
From his tired, grey, oldness.
From the way that the years had stacked themselves,
Malignantly on his stooped shoulders.
His tragic course drooped towards the,
Soldiers of melancholic madness.
Marching in vain on the corners of his mouth.
Yet stirring no life in his painted frown.
He knew no life, only to have grown up empty,
With the pale, emptiness of uncertainty.
That child with the face so empty and tongue so soundless.
Thrusting his silently clenched fists with calculating brilliance,
Against all of the world who held that,
Words were power and only,
Actions can shape burning beauty.
He saw that the flesh was some prison mould,
To drill and scratch and claw at.
That that was all and nothing more.
He was, in his essence, a performer.
And he entertained to the last.
Wrenched open his wounds for public applause,
To let the doves peck at his naked heart.
So that, he too, may know it.
A final, unknowable love before,
The snow irrevocably drowned his footprints.
For he knew that then, he will have never lived.
He wished for something deep and beautiful.
To describe and create again in his heart,
The sweet, simple beauty of a river.
All in one, tempestuous rag-tag of passion.
Of everythings, Of ripples. Of mist. Of dew.
He found the taste of the sweetness he craved in the,
Silk-sheet smoothness of the glassy water.
Running through his old, fibrey hands,
Like the sensuous waves of lost and wasted youth.
He loved it then, the fixated stare of his own longings.
All of it, the river in its calmness.
For it was the enigma that explained his life.
Pierced his warm soul with cold passion.
With his deft, neat little movements,
That possessed within themselves a lifetime of gentle brilliance,
He tiptoed into the water.
He knew that they would find him there.
The businessmen and artists, the poets and fascists.
Those that he had so painstakingly and precisely entertained.
Yet never understood.
Floating to the surface.
After his unruly lust for the cool depths was quenched.
Those who ever doubted his power will see his face,
From many a fairground, black and white.
Painted smile of his cold, curled lips.
And they will know then,
That the answers he sought, in the world and in his heart.
Lay there all along.
That the Old Mime and finally and totally, achieved his exactness,
In the waiting embrace of the bubbles.
CHLOE MCINTYRE 6/11/00
THE OLD MIME
The old mime drew his name,
From his tired, grey, oldness.
From the way that the years had stacked themselves,
Malignantly on his stooped shoulders.
His tragic course drooped towards the,
Soldiers of melancholic madness.
Marching in vain on the corners of his mouth.
Yet stirring no life in his painted frown.
He knew no life, only to have grown up empty,
With the pale, emptiness of uncertainty.
That child with the face so empty and tongue so soundless.
Thrusting his silently clenched fists with calculating brilliance,
Against all of the world who held that,
Words were power and only,
Actions can shape burning beauty.
He saw that the flesh was some prison mould,
To drill and scratch and claw at.
That that was all and nothing more.
He was, in his essence, a performer.
And he entertained to the last.
Wrenched open his wounds for public applause,
To let the doves peck at his naked heart.
So that, he too, may know it.
A final, unknowable love before,
The snow irrevocably drowned his footprints.
For he knew that then, he will have never lived.
He wished for something deep and beautiful.
To describe and create again in his heart,
The sweet, simple beauty of a river.
All in one, tempestuous rag-tag of passion.
Of everythings, Of ripples. Of mist. Of dew.
He found the taste of the sweetness he craved in the,
Silk-sheet smoothness of the glassy water.
Running through his old, fibrey hands,
Like the sensuous waves of lost and wasted youth.
He loved it then, the fixated stare of his own longings.
All of it, the river in its calmness.
For it was the enigma that explained his life.
Pierced his warm soul with cold passion.
With his deft, neat little movements,
That possessed within themselves a lifetime of gentle brilliance,
He tiptoed into the water.
He knew that they would find him there.
The businessmen and artists, the poets and fascists.
Those that he had so painstakingly and precisely entertained.
Yet never understood.
Floating to the surface.
After his unruly lust for the cool depths was quenched.
Those who ever doubted his power will see his face,
From many a fairground, black and white.
Painted smile of his cold, curled lips.
And they will know then,
That the answers he sought, in the world and in his heart.
Lay there all along.
That the Old Mime and finally and totally, achieved his exactness,
In the waiting embrace of the bubbles.
CHLOE MCINTYRE 6/11/00
