Failed Visionary
My attitude towards other people depends entirely
upon whether or not they give me the credit I think I deserve;
and sometimes, even when they do give me enough credit,
I still resent them – especially if they receive more credit
than I think they deserve.
Contact with anybody
who has produced work of quality
fills me with a thwarted yearning empathy,
an implausible sense of fraternity,
a melancholy sting. Regret and resentment
gnawing at me, eating me alive.
This is what you reap
when you haven’t sown anything.
I don’t care about anybody else’s problems:
They are not as serious as mine.
My sadness is not only deeper than yours:
It is wider and in every respect richer.
I always assume that people I admire are single
and experience a sinking sensation
when I learn they are not. They drop
in my estimation – for what that’s worth –
from wishful thinking to cold hard earth.
There are no levees capable
of withstanding the torrents of distraction
that surge through my mind. Tender
resentments, useless trivia and tired lusts
are carried along like debris on a swollen river,
from which, very occasionally, a lucid thought
emerges – only to be sucked back down
into the sewage of pettiness and vanity.
Living in the present, negligibly;
regretting the past, sweepingly;
and speculating upon the future,
incredulously.
I measure my life by other people’s milestones.
All this evasion, absorption and accumulation
provides a foundation in tradition,
a rich vein of consolation.
Art, like death, makes life more interesting.
And without it: as unthinkable as love
without pity, or a selfless eulogy.
But the bondage of receptivity
compares most unfavorably
with the selflessness of productivity.
Frankly, your prolificity disturbs me:
It serves to satisfy an insatiable hunger
For mediocrity. You swagger in vain
Against extinction. But the efforts of those
Who wrest crumbs from history
Will ensure your immortality.
John Tottenham 