Standing behind the crowd in the
Auditorium, looking down at
The Wasteland and more importantly
The Poet on a pedestal who
We were in awe to see. We bow
And say blessings to the lord of the
Modern moment where everyone realized
We were doomed. That the industrial gloom
Would blacken our minds as it had
Already blackened our lungs
And blinded our windshields
Our eyes in the dim lit neon spectacles, wept.
This was my experience from the lectern.
And I worshipped for many years the
Quartets and the high-minded — I don’t
Understand — Get the Encyclopedia — language
But, this was
Modern?
Now
I reckon
upon
a more clearly modern mind
Here
I find
The Red
Wheelbarrow
And a delicious
Plum
And I am
completely
satisfied
By nothing too Mythic
At all (save Unicorns & Beasts)
Just A
Waterfall
Of images
and words
That float along on pages
The rhythm
Tapping its foot – – –
Variably – – – –
Changing
Before you know it
You don’t know it
You don’t know why
It has changed
But it feels
So right.
Justified on the page to fit
Left and right
Right and wrong
Tomorrow and Goodnight
The Wanderer
The Sparrow
The Woman
The River
The Man
The City
The Poet
Founder
Of the plain
Every day
And therefore
Devotionally and divine poem.
