And they call me passionless
Half-alive half-dead.
I lack sorely, they say, inspiration:
Those drops of blood
That the heart brings on page.
My poems are hard as stone, artificial.
I bring no flowers of hell with me,
No, that’s not all of what they say.
No fires of heaven bring I, say they.
The visionary glance is not mine.
Love, longing, thorns of life, not mine,
Nor envy’s green flush,
Shame’s blush scarlet,
Fear’s pallor:  
They have almost been done to death.
Nor can I take a prophetic stance
On Self, on Man, on doubt or Faith,
All inventoried subjects,
On Nature or Nation?
Crawl in mud,
Or flights sublime and steep?

No flights. No Sir!
Not mine.
Not while you,
And you
And you
Read me.
Not today.