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Makers And Creatures

by
 It is a curious experience
And one you"re bound to know, though probably
In other realms than that of literature,
Though I speak of poems now, assuming
That you are interested, otherwise,
Of course, you wouldn"t be reading this.
It is strange to come across a poem In an old magazine, perhaps, and fail At first to see that it"s your own.
Sometimes you think, grateful and surprised, "That"s really not too bad", or gloomily: "Many have done as well and far, far better".
Or, in despair, "My God that"s terrible.
What was I thinking of to publish it".
And then you start to wonder how the great Poets felt, seeing, surprised, their poems As strangers, beautiful.
And how do all the Makers feel to see their creatures live: The carpenter, the architect, the man who Crochets intricate embroideries Of steel across the sky.
And how does God Feel, looking at his poems, his creatures? The swelling inhalation of plump hills, Plumage of poplars on the pale horizon, Fishleap flashing in pools cool as silver, Great horses haunched with glossy muscles And birds who spray their song like apple juice And the soft shock of snow.
He must feel good Surprised again by these.
But what happens When He takes a look at Man? Does He say, "That"s really not too bad", Or does He, as I fear, Wince ruefully and mutter to Himself: "What was I thinking of publishing that one"?

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