The New Prometheus
(a sonnet of sorts)
Into my waking dream you sometimes come
to take the thing I no longer thought I had.
Your staccato rhythms on my flesh-tuned drum
give me the soaring solace of the mad.
So full of the gods' unbanked Promethean fire,
you make theft a gift and violation a desire
so warm with love there can only be surrender--
my cold inertia to what will melt and render.
This fantasy lightning-bought, hot-wired to life,
flash-frankensteined to fit my hid ambitions,
like an army drilled in invisible munitions
I name imagination's blurred-blade knife,yet I have no surgeon's intimacy with death's bite;
I can't claim this illumination as my own light.
Process Note: The subtitle of Mary Shelley's iconic Frankenstein was The Modern Prometheus, a reference to the cost, perhaps, of bringing things to life. Also, I call this a sonnet, but I'm afraid I have not paid much attention to the proper meter or rhyme scheme.
Top:The Beethoven Frieze: The Longing For Happiness Finds Repose In Poetry, Right Wall, detail. 1902 by Gustav Klimt. Public Domain, manipulated.
Footer: Charles Stanton Ogle as Frankenstein's Monster, Frankenstein, 1910,
Public domain, manipulated.