Seeker Magazine

Derek DeHart

It's been almost four years since my previous portrait in Seeker; a lot changes in four years, especially for someone in my, well, my age group, I suppose I'll have to say. If nothing else, through my development as a poet, I've learned of the subtle balance that hovers in the wings of life. As a writer, my perceptions have become somewhat enhanced compared to those of the typical person, and the nuances I have observed have not always been pleasant.
There's a certain empathy that comes with writing poetry, an empathy that grows on you and becomes second nature. It allows you to find beauty in the most common of things: the rotation of the Earth and the accompanying phases of the sunlight and the way the dew hangs on a flower as if for dear life. At the same time, however, a darker side to life is revealed, as I share in the pain of those around me more vividly, and my own pain becomes all the more intense. Thus the balance, and the scale, of course, is my writing, the foundation of my stability.
Since the last time some of you read about my life, I have graduated high school, gone off to college, found and lost love, and found it yet again. I'm majoring in computer science and found a new means of expression through my field. You're more than welcome to visit my website, although it will be moving to its own domain soon.
The more light-hearted of these poems were written in response to the presence of Lora, my girlfriend, in my life. I dedicate these lyrics to her, and I thank all of you who have shown so much support to me and my writing and provided me with kind words in response to my submissions. Specifically, I'd like to thank Denise Ruiz for first recognising there might be something worth publishing among my rantings, and Cherie for her encouragement of my work and her continuing efforts that have made Seeker the best conglomeration of written work I have ever seen.

To Lora
Walk into the moonlight
blindly,
softly, my so sullen darling.
I will be your crescent when
your full moon's far away.

Gaze into the sunset,
hazy,
waning, my dear fallen one.
I will be your painter when
your colour's growing dim.

Look into the firelight,
burning,
dying, my forever love.
I will be your ember when
your coals are going gray.

See into my spirit,
touching,
reaching my lifelong angel.
I will be here waiting when
you need some one,
some soul, to hold you.

Knowledge
A boy sits, wounded and tattered,
alone in a world that never wanted him to be.
Life sears in his heart,
chills in his soul,
like a torrent of fire and ice
on the back of his neck.
Hope is nothing
if not fleeting,
and happiness is a
broken spirit, whimpering and shying
away from the world.

Yet a whispering voice,
from a far away place,
states, with such simplicity,
"Live, and you will love."

A young man reclines, scarred and in pieces,
alone in a world in which he never wanted to be.
Life breaks his heart,
splinters his soul,
like an onslaught of ravaging
demons on his mind.
Dreams are forsaken,
if not forbidden
and redemption is a
taunting ghost, laughing and crying,
just out of his grasp.

Yet a whispering voice,
from some future time,
states, with such simplicity,
"Live, and you will be loved."

An elder lies back, content and at peace,
at one with a world that he couldn't want more.
Life wanes in his heart,
lays to rest in his soul,
like warm, soothing kisses
placed over his eyes.
Joy has been realised,
if not understood,
and completion is a
beloved warmth, smiling yet dying,
but hardly in vain.

Yet a whisper to the voice,
from which he drew life,
states, with such simplicity,
"I am alive, because I knew your love."

The Prevalence of Beauty
He sits in a dark cage of delirium
and delusion,
rattled by hapless dreams
of loss of life and love.
A frost bites at his being,
a chill weathering him
deep into woe.
He gazes ponderingly through the
pen's constraint, but pauses
momentarily to catch a glimpse
of a gleam of hope.

A spark shimmers subtly
in the peripheral of his existence,
a faint luminosity lingering in
the corner of perception.
The phantasmal light flickers
and fades, but never fails
to be consistent in its
illumination of his
illusory despair.

And finally, his soul awakens
to a morning like none other,
to a mourning swept away.
The soft shine explodes into
a cascade of sunlight,
fending off mad notions
and morose tendencies.
His eyes gaze upon the
grace of the redemptive glare
as a tear adorns his cheek
and a smile overcomes his spirit.

Adamant
Frustration blooms in
the heart of adamancy,
a rigid cage of
purity lost.
A chaotic visage
or two
spins its insanity web
over spirits,
tangible
in the minds of those
who love them,
and the twinkle of
an eye sets aflame
the existence
of a cold and tired
vagabond,
But the warmth is
sealed in a tomb
of sorrowful tendencies
and self-deprivating
nonsense.
The solace is hindered
by a ravaging grasp,
a thief of contentment,
and the desecrator
of solemnity.

A Poet's Lacking
I wish I were an artist
so that I could paint
your face on every wall,
on every canvas.
I would show the world
your beauty
with colours that could
never compare
with your own.

I wish I were a writer
so that I could tell
your story to every person,
to everything.
I would describe to all
your beauty
with words that could
never reveal
your true depth.

I wish I were a sculptor
so that I could mold
your form into every stone,
into every bit of clay.
I would carve into each surface
your beauty
with shapes that could
never mimic
the wonder that is you.

But I am just a poet
attempting to explain
my love here on this paper,
this solitary parchment.
I want to try to show you
your beauty
with lyrics that could
never adequately portray
the splendour of your existence.

Untitled

I grasp at the handrail like I do reality,
desperate for support and afraid of falling.
Weakness flows through me where
once there was strength,
as I smell the perfume of eternity.

His eyes well up with despair as he looks at the shards,
the shattered fragments of his hopes and dreams
strewn on the floor before him.
An entropic harmony pervades
the sable stability of his existence.

What do you see but his wild hair like a puppet of the breeze
and the trembling, sweaty-palmed hands that cover his face?
Can you sense past the subtle frailties
and shortcomings of his corporeality
and see the beauty ethereal?

I know the raging blaze residing in the helpless formless spirit,
a dark inferno of sanity consuming the very essence of being.
But will perseverance dawn and
shine against the blind acquiescence
or sink into a mad elation?

A resolute conformity occurs within us all, a subtle tyranny of soul
that corrodes the light of ingenuity and the salvation of creativity.
We all search for something deep
inside the humanity and humility of another.
With finding comes euphoria.
With failure, just the end.

(Copyright 2000 - All Rights Reserved by Derek DeHart - No reproduction without express permission from the author)

For more of Derek's poetry, visit his website at : Twist of Reality
and also the Contributors Index of Seeker Magazine lists his poetry published in previous issues, including those under the name of "DyrkHawke."

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Letter to the Author:
Derek DeHart at ddehart@heidelberg.edu