From the very ends of my fingertips, My fingerprints as old as rings in the oaks Of the seven southern counties lost, Or the sincere lines Not just merely-read By a calcified Babylonian Chiromancer, but upheld As something splendid, As delicate as dreams in a turning moth, I will channel and convey The ferocious glass-through burning Compelling a demiurgic resolution To my resistible demise, With dazzling apogees we shall rise From this derelict and too-long, Much too-long debasing nadir Scrubbed clear of demagoguery, And we shall thrive, for love, For all that is still worth celebrating, Then like Emily, and Edward, And all the ancient poets, Just as suddenly disappear.
The barren bones of a poem inside me,
Some people have got it, and some have not;
I exhumed the soft tune of a sonnet,
Some people want it; most poets forgot.
I dress the dead metre with words and wax,
Our patrons in the palace were shot;
There are no survivors of their syntax,
Their betrayers reworked each person’s plot.
My adversaries expurgated wit
By blackly burning the books of my life;
Mistaken, my imagination lit,
The embers gave birth to a blue midwife.
This is the poem, newborn on my bed,
Where words and verses and whole worlds bled.