by Dr. Alexandra Rodda
Here nothing is what it appears to be
But like a compost heap it writhes and yet unfolds
New possibilities.
Or else it is a seeing of the mind,
A kind of lucid dreaming, more frank and more correct
Than true confessions.
This ontological oneiromancy dares to say
That I and you and Felix too are mostly animals
Beneath the surface.
There’s the adaptive, mindless fish in water
And there the cunning rat, the crocodile, the snake –
I know you from inside.
So well do I know you, to form myself, I take
A dash of rabbit, two parts of hog, a tail of lizard –
An artist with his palette.
In such a way I fashion philosophers and fools
And rabid persecutors, of course complete with victims
In endless permutations.
Like animals, they go about their business, oblivious
To promptings from within by animals – marionettes
Absorbed in two dimensional drama.
Yet here is hope – the bird
Abides with us because of love, and we have faith
That in a while, especially if we really try,
We’ll flap our wings and fly away
Right off the page
Confront the artist
And we’ll say:
Hey, You, Almighty, this Auschwitz business –
It’s not so nice, when one’s on the receiving end,
Even when one is only an image of You.
Felix, Felicis…. Happy, happy Felix,
Survivor of the holocaust.
Thank you for your insights.
The next time I shall draw myself,
I’ll mix that palette carefully,
because I’m just a little part of animal,
With which He is still painting this enormous,
Beautiful Image of Himself.
A.R.