On I’ll Pass, Dragging My Huge Love

Formerly I Believed Books Were Made Like This: A Poet Came, Lightly Opened His Lips, And The Inspired Fool Burst Into Song – If You Please! But It Seems, Before They Can Launch A Song, Poets Must Tramp For Days With Callused Feet, And The Sluggish Fish Of The Imagination Flounders Softly In The Slush Of The Heart. And While, With Twittering Rhymes, They Boil A Broth Of Loves And Nightingales, The Tongueless Street Merely Writhes For Lack Of Something To Shout Or Say

I Understand The Power And The Alarm Of Words - Not Those That They Applaud From Theatre-boxes, But Those Which Make Coffins Break From Bearers And On Their Four Oak Legs Walk Right Away.

Were I As Quiet As Thunder, How I'd Wail And Whine! One Groan Of Mine Would Start The World's Crumbling Cloister Shivering. And If I'd End Up By Roaring With All Of Its Power Of Lungs And More - The Comets, Distressed, Would Wring Their Hands And From The Sky's Roof Leap In A Fever.

If You Like I'll Be Furious Flesh Elemental, Or- Changing To Tones That The Sunset Arouses- If You Like- I'll Be Extraordinary Gentle, Not A Man But - A Cloud In Trousers.

The Love Boat Has Crashed Against The Everyday.