I'll Not be Named

This to all
paragons, prophets, pundits, peddlers, pontificators
whose speech seeks sophistication but not philosophy:

You have not named me.

Oh, you've thrown glowing words
to dance and decorate my bed,
calling me friend, lover, student, trial, terror.
You've called me orator, rapist, average, genius,
ravaged, revolting, revolutionary. You've let me dance
in twisting virtue, travel treasonous trails,
rest awhile in your warm embrace.

And I admit I've given you power:
I've had my crushes, wise and foolish,
I've offered up glowing words
hot off the presses of my passion,
I've written you sonnets, novels, plays,
essays in which I've essayed
to capture some spark
of a window reflecting fire
when there's no fire to reflect.

But you have not named me.

Don't think that because I've given
flickering eye, lover's sigh,
words of subservience
that you know me, hold me, are responsible
for me. Like all the world
you wish I would end my life were it not for you.

But you will not name me.

The only word with the power to name me
is not a word,
the only hand with the power to hold me
is a hand so strong it could crush
Plato's formal fist;
and until your words can burst forth
from the bonds of life, from the dust of death,
until you have the power to speak mercy into being
or create grace in my heart,

the only name I will be named
is one that comes not in your preaching,
not in your prophesying,
not in your screeds telling me my place
and yours above me,
but in an impossible still small voice
with the power to ignite a whirlwind.