Caterwaul - April 19 2025

 

Caterwaul

April 19 2025



I’m getting tired of words.

If only I could act,

be a man of consequence

out in the world.

Not that authors don’t have influence

or skywriters turn heads.

Not that demagogues and preachers

and inspirational speakers

don’t get mobs chanting and cheering

and congregations on their feet,

making frenzied hallelujahs

self-help resolutions

and secret salutes.

But then the crowd disperses,

and in place of affirmations

and speaking in tongues

the Sunday service turns to cookies and tea

and friendly hugs,

chatting amiably

and balancing cups

in the church basement or Fellowship Hall.

And what about the poems never read

letters you thought better of

diaries left untouched,

their adolescent secrets

kept too well?

The words

uttered in your sleep

even you didn’t hear?

The polite conversations

about really nothing much,

and the times you bit your tongue,

cutting off the salty words

they’d actually not forget.

Of course, some words do have weight.

But Scripture

has already been written,

and I’ll never compose

a second Magna Carta

or fresh Rosetta Stone.

Not even a memorable poem

let alone

a New York Times bestseller.

But then I remember

that in a matter of months

all those books the critics loved

will end up remaindered

and gathering dust.

Just like all the other great sensations

and world changers

that came and went

after their moment of fame had passed;

a single voice

in dated prose

lost in the cacophony,

overwhelmed

by the constant caterwaul

of all those words

falling on deaf ears.

I think all these pointless and mostly unread poems as well as the pile of unpublished letters to the editor were the inspiration for this. Because even for powerful people in positions of influence, it’s hard to make a meaningful difference in the world. This is especially demoralizing with things as they are now, when what we need are more activists and agitators, not hand wringers navel gazers.

Even getting a letter published — like this weekend — will not make a whit of difference. The futility and powerlessness are demoralizing. It’s action that counts, not words.

Mere words. Puffs of air and pixels on a screen. Nothing that lasts. After all, what remains from centuries of English prose: aren’t Chaucer and Shakespeare just about it?