An Oration Made To Self

by Philip F De Pinto

Self pity is a lost art
Something impermissible to put
into your cart?

When you were mute
You were so cute
Everyone deemed you thus
Including you
But you had to go and grow
Thus the cuteness could not last
Nor the muteness and alas
Both were broken like fast

And to everyone's surprise
The first utterance out of your mouth
Was not mama or dadda
Nor what's it all about
But prophecy:
Thus the powers that be - ever the profiteers charged a fee
For such as would crane their heads into your crib
As would think to steal your bib;
Of such oracles glean - gain clear advantage
Over foe and ally!
And woe is thee if you forgot conveniently
To pay the fee
Thus become foe
To prophet and owe
Such oracle still for such as gave you the thrill
Of gaining
Clear advantage


Oh what does it matter?

Oh but you were so convincing
In your speech and as
One who lends ears quite readily
To the orator in one
Who better with such dissertation
To defeat self than self?
Who doesn't need much convincing
In the first place or second or third
But is content not to be in the mix


T-wood be a lie
Sans your features as aid
To self satisfy
T-wood be lying
Down on the job ready
Made flying
In the face of what it means to burn a bridge
Which was worth
Every nuance of suffering to build
On which two traversed for a time back and forth
Into each others keeping - a bridge
Which alas is no Phoenix to lift from its ashes
Hence will need mutual weeping
To extinguish


Can you see my head
On silver platter
And fork
Making foray
Into grey

Is all in an evenings work

Thus may wielder of fork
Be fed

As devils wend their eyes
Try tripping me up
On my way to Paradise
You were mine
If you would permit me to say?

It appears
And there is every indication

Everyone is privy to but I
To things that only I
Should be privy to

And kept in quietude
That in my solitude
I still gather food ( for eyes )
For two
And forage still
For my insightful significant other
Which was you
Whom everyone knew
But I
And for this I sigh
Not relief
Nor sob innocence
And to boot I find
My guide is blind
Sextant of another/depleted time
Whom I nevertheless give license to
And credence and place
A faith in - which is not Opaque
And when was the last time
Love took the cake
And traced your face
And kissed and tripped
Fawned over its every feature
When tracing such a creature
As you
Was sublime

In your presence
To turn blind
And dumb for good measure

You were/are a treasure

Another world to cobble out of smoke
Or words of those who spoke their last
The sky toss down a chord
Or mast
Or wench
For one waiting below
With whom it would elope?

I fear

Hope is not in charge
And what will you charge
To see me heaving up lamentation
To grease your gears?

In the interim

I do all sorts of things
To try and forget you
Like tear the cache of my memory of you in half
Then tear that half piece in half
And so on until all such tearing in halves
Conclude one to a point where I can tear no more
Save it is a cruel joke
Given when I get to that point
I remember you still

In conclusion

What is truth?
But I worship you still
And ne'er shall I get my fill
Of loving you
And would renew vows
And as readily woo
You till cows
Come home from the hill
Save you won't permit Phil
If you will
To dismiss the chill
Entrenched in his soul - bereft
Since you left

And so in the finite interlude

How can I think ever to destroy
This love in me yet fervent
And alive or think to disown it
Like an orphan on someone's front door step
Or consider drowning it in a river or stream
Such love as is turned
Amphibian and can breathe underwater?


Posted on 07/04/2013
Copyright © 2022 Philip F De Pinto

Member Comments on this Poem
Posted by Rob Littler on 07/05/13 at 01:43 PM

Self, the idea of Self, not your Self (?). Ode, thereof. Permit me to cut and paste some of your lines, YO! When I read the flow as if there are no line-breaks, it really does flow!

Posted by June Labyzon on 07/12/13 at 02:00 PM

I see you as prolific as other, and I am entranced as ever by your words.

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