Interruption
Death has come
Falling softly like snowflakes
On flowerbeds
The winds blows the dead sheet of leaves
Every time I see greatness rising from the earth
Like a new pea growing
The locust comes like a flash of lightning
Will nothing endure our birth
These are days so trivial
Nothing is sustained beyond the flesh of pleasure
And all we contewmplate
Are so superficial, so personal
Too insular
For the escape we seek
Where the highest peak is bleak
Will poets see deep things again
Will they make far things near
And palpable on the tongue
O I long to suck the delicacy of a song
That drip with the light of melting stars
And put my lips on the passion of the sun
Who writes like that again
We have neither an Eliot, nor a McKay
Neither a Blake nor a Keats
This is a civilization in decay
Great truths now our superficiality deletes
We cannot see them
And all the noise is silence still
I see choice like a shadow
Just a rag of suspended will
I want to hear a poet groan giving birth
O push, push, push, please push
Away this dead effect of words
And let us make our lives universal
Having a Wordsworthian argument again.
O let us,
That I may read Donne
Without epilepsy,
And seduce a new pain.
Copyright © David Smalling | Year Posted 2010
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