FABLE Poem: Dicendis Ignis, by Nicholas Williams

he said, “poet – poems, their likeness is useless.
Do you see? They are trivial people
writing trivial words for drunkards to
regurgitate on trivia night
at their local pub. But we are world burners―world creators!”

But I did not see. Immediately,
sun high in the sky,
I approached my neighbors,
all strangers, and exclaimed, “I am a Poet!
Poet! Poet through and through!”
Fearful of some mad stranger
banging on their front door,
they refused to answer.

But I did not despair.

I went to my family and exclaimed, “I am a Poet!
Poet! Poet through and through!”
Some touched my forehead fearful of a fever,
others patted me atop my head,
“You’ll grow-up someday,” they said.

But I did not despair.

“If strangers know me as well as family, then
I must meet the knowers of everything!”
Quickly I escaped to the nearest University
and there I gathered professors
from all studies. Standing before them
I announced joyfully,
“I am a Poet! Poet! Poet through and through!”

“Nonsensical!” many professors proclaimed,
while others claimed, “Nonsense.”
One professor stood up and said,
“The word I is nonsense; therefore, I have no idea what is being said.”
Another professor stood up and exclaimed,
“You’re all wrong! The word Poet is nonsense; therefore, he is merely proclaiming he exists, and
is thus wasting our time. I propose we leave.”

Only two professors remained after
the Great Scholarly Exodus,
one was beautiful
with long grey hair, and deep wrinkles
in her face. She stood up with great care and
raising a shaky arm, her skin pulling
toward the earth, she pointed at me and said,
“I know you, and your turns.
Do you not see?
Writers are to be subjected.
Ends come from readers now. A
writer alone is just a fanciful dream!
You, are a means, of course.”

Then the second professor stood,
equal in beauty and sluggishness
he cleared the rubble from his throat
and exclaimed, “A Poet? A Poem? Heaven forbid!
All poetry died with the Romantics.
Reason is our champion today!
A Poet? A Poet is a nasty robbing creature―
a societal byproduct we’ve
yet to figure out how to dispose of.
Surely we’d bury you all if we were
not fearful of you contaminating
our water supply.”
With that, they shuffled out together.

Once again I stood alone.
But I did not despair―running about the city
I went to trees and bushes at their most
vulnerable time, and asked, “Poet?
Poet? Am I a Poet?”

but their reply
left much for me to imply.

The sun began to kiss the western horizon
lighting clouds with intoxicating oranges
and deep sobering purples.
Those akin to me began
to litter alleyways and backyards.

Entering an ally wet with filth,
a rat approached me.
I asked, “Poet? Poet?
Am I a Poet?”

The rat shrugged.

I approached a raccoon,
feasting from inside a dumpster,
peering in, I humbly asked,
“Poet? Poet? Am I a Poet?”

The raccoon shrugged.

Questions flourished―But I did not despair.
Arriving on the outskirts of the city
I approached a possum perched
on a wooden fence, and asked, “Poet?
Poet? Am I am Poet?”

The possum shrugged.

Then
a moment
of silence
laid on the tongue
with the weight of a century and I laughed!

“Ah! I see! I see!
Carminaphobia1 lives in our hearts!
Dumb stupid fingers on shaky hands
belongs to the poets of today.
HAHA! Do you see?”

The possum shrugged.

And I did not despair―to the nearest hill
I ran with joy―glowing―burning
“Creare Creare Creare!”2
within it resounded deep―
swelling; an echo to a high-pitched
vibration. And it was my own;
a vox3 from within―commanding
for new beginnings―new voices!
Sparks replaced questions;
melancholy and joyful tears flooded out

as I stood atop the hill looking out
to the city behind me,
remembering all carminaphobists.

Never again shall I return, and I did not despair.

Within―breathing life―taking alight!
I; conditorem ignis4―and there! I do see.
We world burners. We world creators!―
how painful our bone growing,
bone stretching ways are.
How fertile our soil!
No longer poet! I,
Dicendis Ignis,

I, wanting to burn―needing to burn
till all is consumed―lush cities charred,
reason melted down into a lake
for those of us capable enough
to swim and not fall under.

Yes! I see, my friend! And I have never despaired.
Leave them to their Poets,
their Poems,
and should they shun them all, we
Dicendis Ignis,
will greet them on the hill
and gift them Vulcan’s tongue
to resurrect themselves