In Five Years

Two-thousand and one,
What could be more
What world will I come to know?
What life? What love?
I've never had a knack for prophesy;
Ship buffeted by gale-winds,
I drift onto new shores,
Into new ports,
I at the helm,
Desire my captain,
Destiny my mariner.
I conjure visions from the fog;
What shall I learn from these?
New verses for my creaking shelves
I happily will transcribe,
But will I be any the wiser for it?
All around, the world strains in the throes
Of ecstatic metamorphosis.
My own place, I hardly perceive
Though I dimly feel that sacred spirit,
Goethe's Eternal Feminine,
Tugging at my Faust-soul.
(Ah, Goethe! Tempestuous seer and sage!)
"Set your house in order!"
She says.
"Waken the godlike in you,
Errant poet!
You have strayed too long,
Consorted with demons of sorrow,
Shut yourself away from the light.
Now, go into my world,
And nurse yourself on new sights,
Then so nourished,
Enact, gentle Magus, my will.
Engine of beneficent transformation,
Heed me, and do not squander my gifts.
Have faith, restless one,
And we will achieve much together."

George Chadderdon © 1996