Poetry of the Devil (for Bob Dylan)
Poetry of the Devil
He could write the poetry of the devil.
And he would sing with the voice of an angel.
All the imagination that one word
He would hand over like an old letter
inside an envelope,
And let you decide if you want to read.
Sometimes the first pass is hidden from the truth.
But then, words can change over time.
He would meet you some time after midnight,
And shake your hand like a ghost.
As a traveler, he was lonesome,
As a family man, he forgave,
As a poet, he exercised,
As a demon, he would pray,
As in a spinster,
He told the truth when he wanted to.
When the words boiled, like soup,
And pulled the meat from the bones,
He knew the recipe for hunger
And fed it back to you.
Inside water there are minerals are you cannot see.
Inside water we go back to sleep.
Inside water we go back
to where we came from.
He captained the
murk before the sweet dreamers
Took the ride. And
Cracked their morning windows
before the children
Pushed their porridge aside.
You can light the candles and dim the lights.
He knew when it was story time.
Maybe once a song and dance man
Maybe once that time was gone
He made you blink
And let it slide,
Just to turn you on.
Life is an endless burn.
Burn. Burn. Burn.
Life makes you want
To go back down the old road
Where broken hearts and lovers collide.
Just when you couldn’t wait any longer
He would sit down,
to the head of the table
Look out the window
And watch the garden grow.
You can’t forgive a man for crimes you do not know,
But you can be given to, and not know why.
Sometimes only the giver understands
For Bob Dylan
By Chris Brecht