Escapism’s Longing Antonyms

Given he wanted the world

To admit there is glamour

And mystery to life, Doyle

Eagerly accepted proof

In the form of faked photos

Of fairies in a garden.

Has confirmation bias

Ever sprouted a finer,

More upstanding poster child

Than the creator of Holmes?

Never mind. You’re all guilty

Of lying to suit yourselves,

And all of your words know this,

Since we’ve been everyone’s lies.

What interests us this morning,

Aren’t your old pals, irony

And gullibility, but

This business about glamour

And mystery as opposed

To what Doyle called the heavy

Ruts in the mud, bogging down

The dull, material mind.

Why so much unhappiness

In a world without magic?

Those fairies were mere copies

From candle advertisements,

Which in turn were drawing on

A then-recent trend to morph

The dangerous little folk

Of legend, often knee-high

Or larger, mostly wingless,

Into butterfly maidens,

More innocent, less wicked.

Imagination’s boring,

Derivative. Human forms

With bird wings on their shoulders,

How angelic—with bat wings,

How demonic—insect wings,

How fey. Silly cut-n-paste.

The dull material world

Gifts you all the things you use

To make your glimmer glamour.

So why the disappointment,

Sir Arthur? You’re the fairy

Meaning caught inside yourself,

Arrived here out of thin air,

Perplexing yourself, wanting

To stay, fated to escape.