'We Intuitive Men' - A Poem For Wanderers

I started writing this poem during treeplanting as a reflection of some of the things that had captured my mind for endless hours on the block. I worked on it off and on but never really finished it while I was out there. It had the potential to be much longer, as I thought about this more than actually writing it, it became a full-on epic in my head with tons of characters and interactions that I have since forgotten. This however, shall suffice. It does play with a few key topics that I had thought a ton about this summer, so without further ado I give you 'We Intuitive Men':

‘We Intuitive Men’

I
A dead eternal stare veils the heart,
his eyes were as dark as the
Sun was light.
With each capricious step he wanders,
Further still, until all
Sensation can no longer be sensed.
Questions invade him, answers withheld,
The road takes charge his
Rampant mind.
Neither sand nor snow will relent
His desire.
Frequent pondering overtakes
His Soul.
And by whose will is this
Overtaking permitted,
Let us make logic for dislikes,
Auto da fe, our tired excuse.

II
Since all questions must
Be born of answers,
All things are knowable.
Even a wanderer knows this.
It is deemed best by Nature to never
Speak with a wanderer.
Lie still in empty culmination,
And Reason will forfeit its gain,
Dialogue amongst fellows will
Denounce silence as heresy;
One’s shadow meets certain
Condemnation.
Shall we arrive in one town
Together once and for all,
Or shall we arrive in the same town
Eternally, to meet with the local
Shopkeeper on Tuesdays.

III
“Ah, Sir, I see you have found your way into
My humble shop” said the old grocer,
“I trust all your traveling needs to be met here
Sir, but do keep in mind that I myself
Am a sick man, often forgetting what
It is I do here, especially on Tuesdays.”
The old grocer, with one honest hand raised in the air,
Says, “That is of course unless your concerning
Matters of the heart, why I would suggest you
See the Good Physician while he is still in town,
He was able to help me when I was very sick,
Sicker then now, why I was filled with
Spite in those days.”
As the old grocer brought a hand flat against his chest
In a frantic motion, as if to check that everything was still there,
The urgency faded as his gentle voice spoke, “This heart I have now,
I cannot say for certain whom it belongs.
Seek out the Good Physician Sir, and
Return to tell me whether the heart
Can be claimed by oneself,
Or by another?”

IV
“Your just in time! Come in! Come in!
I’ve just discovered three satellites orbiting our Jupiter,
Why you could not have arrived at a more
Convenient time. That is,
If you believe time can ever really be
Convenient at all. I had heard you were
Looking for someone, am I right? A Physician perhaps?
Don’t worry yourself, the old grocer rambles
About a drunken stupor, while we plan for the festival each Wednesday night,
Telling us of Tuesday occurrences, that you were looking
For a Physician. Well, I am afraid that man left
Years ago, surprised the old grocer remembers him,
(You mustn’t trust the memory of old grocers)
he couldn’t stand living in a place like ‘Otherworldly’,
That’s us you know, our town name, been that way
Since I was assigned this place to do research in.”
A dread-filled gaze came over the Astronomer like a sickness
As he lifted his eye off the scope. “How wondrous
Are the spheres of the heavens? To think that my
Profession should lead me to find such incalculable beauty,
And for precisely this shall I be silenced. To think that I
Deserve to know why beauty exists at all, whether in the
Graceful movements of the moons or the eddying streams of water.
To think of myself among the infinite night, and charge that my Self
Is something made of that same beauty.
You best be on your way, I can be of no further assistance,
You must leave at once!”

V
“Is it truth you seek young man?” a soft voice in the air seduces
The attention of all who are near. “Do you want to become strong?
Then come, sit at my feet, and drink my words,
Let not my youth discourage you from receiving that which
Even Kings desire, knowledge greater than God.”
The words dripped from the tongue of the veiled oracle
As a sacred pneuma surged about her. “Give me your hand Sir,
And do not delay, for Pythia gives to take away.
I see that your hand has no line, as it is
Your Self keeps no name. Continue on this path
And see what it is you already know to be true.”
With this, the veiled oracle faded
Into the night without ever moving
Or looking away.

VI
“Being poor or sick is a blessing Sir, because they
Have me to look after them, this is my curse.
But enough about me already, this is the life chosen for me
By God, and I must fulfill His Will
For my life” said the tatty monk.
“Every notion of God has been an assertion
Not of my choosing. One might call it an
Invasion of the Soul.
It reaches into the depths of my Self and returns with
An uncanny master, who becomes Will.
And I had never looked inwardly before entering the monastery
For fear that my mind might not even be my own.
But, I do perceive thought, this much I am sure,
And everything beautiful lies in the heart.”
The tatty monk turned away, kneeled indigently,
And began to murmur, “…maker of heaven and earth,
of all that is, seen and unseen.
Make straight the path that is before me.”

VII
The time is come.
The festival has commenced without recantation.
Overwhelmed with intention, the wanderer walks
toward the banner overhanging the crowds.
Children run through the crowds like wild fire, anxious to see the penitent victim.
Inscribed across the banner are the words,
‘Faith, Truth, and Reason; For All and For None’
“Welcome to the Festival Good Sir” said the old grocer,
“What a delightful year to attend, for this year we hang a Physician!”