Posterity

Oct 7 2011

This is a true story

of crime, and consequence.

The dark art of graffiti

which he practiced in the subways of New York.

In Pompeii, graffiti have outlasted

vast and glorious Rome,

preserved

by congealed mud, volcanic ash.

The same juvenile braggadocio,

the same rabble-rousing bad-mouthing slanders,

but in Latin, of course.

And in the caves of France

prehistoric children

marked the walls with their hands,

fine-boned fingers

clear enough

to guess their age.

Wondering who they thought would come

and seeing what

in the subterranean darkness?

Or if their art would last

so unimaginably long.

So this young man

hauled ladders and spray cans

into the cold dripping labyrinth,

rolled-on

a white latex canvas

and left his tag.

Not the usual graphic flash

rivals taunted, showing-off,

but his entire autobiography

written down.

More than 200 instalments

all over Gotham’s dark underground,

where no one could read them at all. 

I imagine he needed

to leave his mark.

Shout into the silence

the indifferent dark.

Or find some closure,

setting down his story

then letting it go.

As if the act

of having written

was sufficient,

the unheard confession

of verse.

He was eventually nabbed,

for public mischief

the impersonation of a maintenance man

in pilfered clothes.

I’m not sure

if his words will stand.

If a thousand years from now

archaeologists will pump-out the tunnels

disinter the walls,

and presume to know us all

by this singular man.

Which leaves me to ask,

is graffiti art

was he a vandal?

And who is this man

who defaced public property

in the underbelly darkness
of New York?

Who tried to erase

his faceless obscurity,

proclaiming himself

to bored commuters

in a noisy blur.

Steel on steel, screeching through curves,

returning home

then back to work.

I had the urge to write a poem about the act of writing:  the pure joy I feel when I’m immersed in words, the creative fire. The act of writing itself. The satisfying finality of having written. I thought I might do something on the conjugation of the verb “write”.

Then I remembered this piece I’d heard on the latest edition of the podcast/NPR radio show This American Life. The theme was cat and mouse. The story – at true one – was exactly this. Which is how I began:  like a pulp crime thriller.

As I listened, I thought about not just his resourcefulness, but his neediness:   how squelched and invisible and  unimportant and futile he must feel, as if he had spent a  lifetime shouting into the wind. And what drives us to seek out posterity. And how we seek meaning in seemingly quixotic acts. And isn’t this the highest expression of art:  the purity of something created for its own sake, for which there is no expectation it will be admired, rewarded, or even seen.

As if the act

of having written

was sufficient,

Which may not be the best line, but I think best captures my original intent.

Talking about getting off a good line, I like the off-centre humour of this one:  " ...the impersonation of a maintenance man". Of all things, who ever impersonates a menial manual worker?!!

I'm not thrilled with the title. I suspect I've used it before. It sounds kind of pretentious. And perhaps it gives away too much of the as yet unread poem. Suggestions are welcome.